


Holmes, Sweet Holmes

by LizzeXX



Series: The Jackie Holmes Chronicles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Budding Love, Canon Rewrite, Criminal Minds Crossover, Drama, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jim Moriarty Has Issues, John has no idea what's going on, Leena is French, Leena is an old friend, Love, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft is meddlesome, Mystery, Operation Maid Marian, Past Relationship(s), Profiling, Psychology, Rewrite of Series 1, Robin Hood References, Scotland Yard, Sherlock misses Leena, The French are awesome, minor crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 51,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29788209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzeXX/pseuds/LizzeXX
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, resident sociopath of 221B Baker Street, a difficult man to love…or is he? Leena, a very old friend, would disagree entirely. Who is she? How does she know Sherlock? Why does a simple text from her make him…smile? Dr. Watson has no idea what's coming.Sherlock/OC
Relationships: John Watson & Original Female Character(s), Locksley/Leena, Mycroft Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Jacqueline Jerrard, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherwood/Jackie
Series: The Jackie Holmes Chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189583
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. A Study in Pink: The Mystery Texts

**Author's Note:**

> I have been plagiarized many times since I began writing fanfiction :( So please, do not copy my work onto other sites. And if you see my work, whether in full or tweaked or mish-mashed into other people's works, reach out to me on tumblr (LizzeXX) and let me know so I can look into it, post evidence on my tumblr's 'Plagiarizers' page, and ask for help reporting when it happens :(
> 
> I have seen it all by now. From people flat out copying everything and just pasting it as is, to changing the OC's name or from 3rd to 1st person, to alternating parts of their own work with putting in parts of mine, to starting off originally and then transitioning to my work, to using a specific OC for 1 story then switching to another from the same genre in their next, to people literally taking chunks from 5 different series and piecing it together into a story, so please, PLEASE, let me know if you see it happening. I am nervous enough posting this on AO3 or any other site, it is reassuring to me if people can keep an eye out and just let me know if you see anything happening :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Taking a teeny break from posting my DW series here to pop around with my OC/Sherlock story Holmes, Sweet Holmes, a little play on Home, Sweet Home...which will probably make more sense once my OC comes into play :) My OC, well...I'm going to do something different than I do with my other OC stories, I won't be describing her or giving her name in this note. Because we don't actually learn what her real name is (despite my little summary and what Sherlock says in this chapter) or what she looks like for a couple chapters more. So, to keep the mystery going, no description here :)
> 
> But to speak more of the story, this will be, as mentioned before, a Sherlock/OC story. I will try to keep as true to Sherlock as I can, but I do stress that...you are a different person around your friends than around your family or co-workers or others. I am going to try to make the Sherlock we see around my OC, who (I can safely say) is a VERY old friend of his, as believable as possible, keeping in mind both his 'sociopathic tendencies' but also his history and relationship with my OC. This story is going to assume an established relationship/friendship of some kind before the show begins, that we will learn more about as the story goes on.
> 
> Little warning, we won't see my OC in this first episode, but her presence will be very much felt through various means.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> ~8~ is a scene break
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, not Sherlock Holmes or the BBC's show...if I did...Sherlock would always wear his purple shirt (you know which one I'm talking about :) -wink wink-)

A tall man with dark curly hair sat in a cab, aimlessly driving through London. He reached into the pocket of his black coat, the fabric of his blue scarf rubbing against the underside of his chin as he looked down at his phone. He flicked through it, tapping into the police broadcast occurring live at that very moment.

He watched as Sergeant Sally Donovan sat beside Detective Inspector Lestrade, giving a press conference on the latest string of mysterious deaths that had plagued the area.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London," Donovan was saying, "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Phillimore. In light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

"Detective Inspector, how can _suicides_ be _linked_?" a male reporter called.

"Well, they all took the same poison," Lestrade began, "They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indicat…"

"But you can't have serial _suicides_."

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people," another man called, "There's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link we've found yet, but we're looking for it. There _has_ to be one."

The dark-haired man grinned as he heard a number of dings go off, everyone in the room of the press conference looking down at their phones as a text appeared.

**Wrong!**

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," Donovan called, tensing at the sight, receiving the same text as the others.

"It just say 'wrong,'" the first man replied.

"Well, just ignore that. If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end…"

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?" the second man asked.

"As I said, these suicides are clearly linked," Lestrade stated, "It's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating."

The dark-haired man's ice-blue eyes narrowed as he smirked, seeing everyone receive yet another text.

**Wrong!**

"Says 'wrong' again," the second man frowned, confused.

"One more question," Donovan called, trying to keep order.

"Is there any chance that these are murders?" a woman asked, "And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I know that you like writing about these," Lestrade frowned, "But these _do_ appear to be suicides. We know the differences…"

The dark-haired man snorted. _Sure_ they did.

"The poison was clearly self-administered…"

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the woman cut in.

"Well, don't commit suicide."

"Daily Mail," Donovan muttered under her breath, just knowing that was where the reporter was from.

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

The dark-haired man laughed loudly now as they received one more text.

**Wrong!**

But then his own phone buzzed. The picture minimized so that the text could enlarge.

_The txts r sent_  
**L**

He grinned with a secretive and very smug smile, quickly texting back:

_I can c that_  
**SH**

_ur an ass Locksley_  
**L**

He smirked at that, knowing it was said in jest, before sending another quick one to a man who, if the image playing on his phone of Lestrade was anything to go by, which it was, was very frustrated right now:

_You know where to find me._  
**SH**

He let out a little laugh, shaking his head as the cab pulled up before St. Bart's hospital, the location for the great Sherlock Holmes to launch his newest experiment.

~8~

"How fresh?" Sherlock asked as he stepped into the morgue to see Molly Hooper, the woman in charge of the morgue, standing before the body of an old man.

"Just in, 67," she answered with a small gasp, having turned at his sudden entrance, "Natural causes. Used worked here, I knew him, he was nice."

"Fine," he started to grin, "We'll start with the riding crop."

~8~

Sherlock mercilessly beat the riding crop against the corpse as Molly watched, slightly squeamish, from a neighboring room.

~8~

"So…" Molly entered, seeing Sherlock had finished and was on his phone, "Bad day, was it?"

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes," he remarked distractedly, sending a text.

_Riding crop, bruises._  
**SH**

"A man's alibi depends on it," he nodded to himself, "Text me."

"Listen," Molly began hesitantly, "I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished…"

She was cut off by his phone pinging.

_I hope u wore gloves this time_  
**L**

She watched as Sherlock glanced down at his hands, red and slightly chaffed from where he'd been tightly holding the crop.

_Of course_  
**SH**

He glanced over at Molly, frowning, "You're wearing a lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I, er..." she began, touching her lips, but the phone beeped again.

_Liar_  
**L**

She frowned, seeing him smirk at the phone, "I refreshed it a bit."

_U cant prove that_  
**SH**

He blinked and looked over, as though just realizing Molly was there and that he'd been talking to her for the last minute or two, "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," Molly said quickly, just _knowing_ the phone would ping again…which, in fact, it did.

_U txt back in 3 secs. 5 when u lie. Liar :)_  
**L**

"Black," he called absently, focused on the phone, "Two sugars, please."

_Call me_  
**L**

He grinned, "I'll be upstairs."

"…ok," Molly sighed, watching him head for the steps, putting the phone to his ear.

~8~

Sherlock looked up from the microscope he was using when the door to the lab opened. He rolled his eyes, seeing Mike Stamford, a man he'd spoken to earlier that day, enter with another man. He spared the second man a glance, noting his light, army-cut hair, his stiff posture, the tan lines at the cuff of his sleeves, the slightly larger pocket on his pant where his mobile phone was deposited. He had a cane and walked with a limp…clearly a psychosomatic one given he hadn't made for the neartest chair to sit and rest his leg.

"Bit different from my day," the second man commented, looking around at the technology in the lab.

Sherlock shook his head and went back to his work.

"You've no idea!" Mike grinned.

He sighed, realizing _why_ Mike had brought a complete stranger to him and, while his preliminary evaluation of the man was adequate, he wanted to know more about this potential flatmate. He glanced at Mike, observing how his pockets were flat, not a bulge anywhere, clearly he didn't have his phone on him.

Perfect.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Mike frowned, "And what's wrong with the landline?"

Sherlock gave a minute smile, "I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Here, use mine," the other man offered.

Sherlock feigned the smallest surprise at that, as though he hadn't expected the man to offer his own, "Oh, thank you."

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike introduced.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked offhandedly, texting away on the phone, having given it the onceover flip in his hand, noting all the dings and personalizations.

"Sorry?" John blinked, surprised that the man knew he was a soldier.

He looked over, "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, sorry," John frowned, "How did you know?"

"Ah!" Sherlock grinned as Molly entered with his cup of coffee, "Coffee, thank you," he spared her one more glance, taking in the differences, "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," Molly shrugged, offering a smile.

"Really? It was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

"Ok," Molly blinked surprised at the almost compliment.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked John, handing his phone back as he went to the microscope once more.

"I'm sorry, what?" John shook his head, unsure where that came from.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he glanced at John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John turned to Mike, "You told him about me?"

Mike just grinned, "Not a word."

"Who said anything about flatmates?" John turned back to Sherlock.

"I did," Sherlock grinned, "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John shook his head, stunned.

Sherlock just ignored him, getting his things together, finished with his experiment, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary…" he quickly tapped something on his phone.

_Riding crop?_  
**SH**

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" Sherlock glanced over.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

_Mortuary. After u lied 2 me!_  
**L**

He grinned, nodding, before he turned to John, walking closer to the door, "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" he moved to step out the door but turned back with a grin, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he gave a wink, "Afternoon," and left the room.

"Yeah," he heard Mike speak as he headed down the hall, "He's always like that."

He smirked.

~8~

Sherlock nodded at his latest text as the black cab pulled up before 221 Baker Street, John standing there, waiting.

_Good luck Locksley! Say hello 2 MrsH 4 me!_  
**L**

"Hello," he greeted as he stepped out of the cab and walked over to John.

"Ah…Mr. Holmes," John reached out to shake his hand.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock returned the shake before turning to knock on the door.

"Well, this is a prime spot," John commented, looking around, "Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

He grinned, "Oh, no, I _ensured_ it."

The door suddenly opened and an old woman with short blonde hair was standing there, "Sherlock!" she cried, throwing her arms out.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock hugged her back, "Leena says hello," he told her quietly in her ear, not wanting John to hear, not wanting to bring her up around the man, he'd just ask all sorts of questions and be curious...not that being curious was a bad thing, he was often curious, but...he was rather possessive of his things and Leena, he didn't share her with anyone till he had to. He was a selfish man. He straightened and gestured at John, "Dr. John Watson."

"Hello," Mrs. Hudson greeted with a smile, motioning them in, "Come in."

"Thank you," John smiled as well, stepping into the house. Mrs. Hudson eagerly led them up a flight of stairs towards 221B, the loft above her own.

"Shall we..." Sherlock asked as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and allowed them in.

It was a very quaint room, full of boxes and books and some other odds and ends. John eyed a human skull sitting on the fireplace mantel a moment before nodding to himself, "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely."

"So I went straight ahead and moved in," he said, at the same time that John remarked, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..."

John blinked and turned to Sherlock, "So this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can er..." he stepped more into the room, closing a book and trying to push it into a straighter pile, "Straighten things up a bit."

"That's a skull," John pointed to the mantel, pulled there once again.

Sherlock grinned, recalling how he'd gotten that skull, "Friend of mine. When _I_ say friend..." he laughed, "Got it _from_ a friend though."

That had been a night. The looks on his parents and brother's faces when he'd pulled out that birthday gift and profusely thanked the giver for such a thoughtful present had been forever etched into his mind. He'd been admittedly going through a Shakespeare phase at the time, obsessed with Hamlet and wanted his own Yorrick. He still didn't know how that had happened, SHE had been the literature prodigy of the two of them. But he supposed that was what happened when one associated with another for as long as they had, their quirks rubbed off on the other. She'd become remarkably sharp at picking things out, not quite to his level, but better than an average person. To this day he didn't know how she'd managed to procure an authentic human skull for him, but that was to be expected.

She was the one person he _didn't_ make deductions about.

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson called, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts, "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," John said quickly.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled, "Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones..." and then she caught sight of the room, "Oh...Sherlock! The mess you've made!" she stepped into the room and started straightening up.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John remarked to Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked, not sounding interested.

"Found your website. 'The Science of Deduction.'"

NOW he was interested.

He turned to John, grinning slightly, "What did you think?"

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes," he turned to the window, looking out, "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

"How?" John shook his head, completely befuddled as to how that was possible.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson remarked as she wandered back over to them, "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same."

"Four," he smirked, seeing Lestrade getting out of a car and heading for the door, there was only _one_ reason for the man to seek him out, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

Mrs. Hudson gasped, "A fourth?"

Sherlock turned around right as the door opened and Lestrade walked in, "Where?" he asked the man.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me otherwise."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"He doesn't work well with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I NEED an assistant."

Lestrade sighed, "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car," Sherlock stiffened, "I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," Lestrade smiled, nodding at the others before turning to head out.

Sherlock waited till he was out the door before doing a small jump into the air, spinning around in excitement, clenching his hands into fists as he cheered, "Brilliant! _Yes_! _Four_ serial suicides, and now a _note_. Oh, it's _Christmas_!" he grabbed his phone, sending out a quick text.

_4th. Note. Anderson._  
**SH**

Before he grabbed his coat and scarf, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear," Mrs. Hudson huffed, "Not your housekeeper."

Sherlock just ignored her, getting distracted by his phone, "Something cold will do…"

_Congrats. Send me a pic. Dont kill him._  
**L**

He laughed silently at that last note, only she could keep up with his one word messages and understand what he was saying, "John," he looked over, "Have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" he strode out the door, making it down the stairs before his phone buzzed again.

_What about JW?_  
**L**

_What about him?_  
**SH**

_Army dr. Seen it all. Better than Andy._  
**L**

He smirked, she was right. He dashed back up the stairs, "You're a doctor," he called to John, "In fact you're an _Army_ doctor."

"Yes," John looked over from where he was sitting on an armchair.

"Any good?"

He really didn't care. ANYONE was better than Anderson.

"Very good," John nodded.

Sherlock grinned, "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, God, yes," John nodded, getting up, "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"Both of you?" Mrs. Hudson called as they left the room.

"Impossible suicides?" Sherlock scoffed at her words, "Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's _finally_ something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on! Taxi!"

~8~

"Ok," Sherlock began as he and John sat in the back of a black cab, "You've got questions..."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you, what do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say...private detective."

"But…"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"Means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

He smirked, he _loved_ it when he got to prove himself, keep himself sharp, improve his skills, he had always been remarkable at spotting little details about others, piecing them together into a conclusion about that person. His deductions, they way he thought, others were just so slow at keeping up, "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how DID you know?"

"I didn't _know_ , I _saw_. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation...'bit different from my day'...said trained at Bart's, so Army _doctor_ , obvious. Your face is tanned...but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan...Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John stared at him, "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

"Mmm?"

"Your phone," Sherlock reached out and took the phone, "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a _flatshare_. _You_ wouldn't buy this, it's a gift. Scratches," he pointed to the ones on the back, "Not one, many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. _You_ wouldn't treat your _one_ luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?" John guessed, looking at the engraving, 'To Harry, From Clara XXX.'

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live, unlikely you've got an extended family, not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, it's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on he's given it away. If she'd left HIM, he would have kept it. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left HER. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or don't like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" John shook his head, stunned.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection," he pointed to tiny little nicks by the power socket, "Tiny little scuff marks round it. Every night he plugs it in but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult _amateurs_ ," he smirked smugly.

"That...was amazing."

Sherlock glanced at him, "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.'

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!" he laughed.

There was really only one person who had been as _impressed_ with him as John had been, maybe even more so. But then again, she had been only 7 years old at the time.

He pulled out his phone, sending a quick text.

_Ive impressed JW_  
**SH**

A moment later a small smile appeared on his face as he saw the answering reply.

_U impress evry1 :)_  
**L**

_Even u?_  
**SH**

_Especially me_  
**L**

The cab pulled to a stop at the crime scene and the men exited the car, "Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked as they walked towards the police tape surrounded area.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," John nodded, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce, and Harry _is_ a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped suddenly, John walking on until he noticed and looked back, "Harry's your _sister_ ," Sherlock stated.

John shook his head at how the man was caught up on _that_ instead of the crime scene ahead of them, "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" Sherlock grumbled, starting to walk again.

"No, seriously, what _am_ I doing here?"

"There's always _something_."

"Hello, freak!" Sally Donovan greeted snidely as they approached the police tape. She didn't like Sherlock much, not at all, he unsettled her, irritated her. There was just something...off...about the man. His lack of empathy for the victims, his glee at murders disturbed her. But what's more...she hated the fact that he was often right, he solved crimes faster than their entire team and that left a bitter taste in her mouth. He was just...freaky...

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock remarked dryly, as though he put up with this very greeting on a daily basis.

"Why?"

"I was invited," he said, as though speaking to an infant, absently fiddling with a text.

_SD_  
**SH**

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

He sighed, looking down at his phone, as it pinged, "Always Sally."

_S **T** D_  
**L**

He smirked, leave it to her to bring up the woman's adultery, and, speaking of...he eyed Donovan closely, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't..." Donovan began, flustered, before seeing John standing there, "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine," Sherlock pocketed his phone, "Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan," he smirked, "Old friend."

"A _colleague_?" Donovan gaped, eyeing Sherlock, "How do YOU get a colleague? Did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited…" John cut in.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"Freak's here," Donovan called into her radio, "Bringing him in."

Sherlock stepped past the police tape and made his way into the building with John limping quickly behind, "Ah, Anderson," he greeted a man in a sterile white suit, a member of the forensics team, another man that irritated him much like Donovan, perhaps that was why the two were so...close, "Here we are again."

"It's a _crime_ scene," Anderson glared, "I do _not_ want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for a long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson sneered, "Somebody _told_ you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men," Anderson rolled his eyes, " _I'm_ wearing it."

Sherlock smirked, "So's Sergeant Donovan. Ooh...I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Whatever you're trying to impl…"

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock cut in, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees. You'll need to wear one of these," he handed John a sterile white suit.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, coming down the stairs to them, eyeing John.

"He's with me."

"But who _is_ he?"

"I said he's with me."

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John frowned, putting on the white suit but seeing Sherlock not make a similar move.

"So where are we?" Sherlock ignored him, turning to Lestrade.

"Upstairs," Lestrade nodded to the stairs, heading up them, "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," Sherlock remarked, pulling out his phone.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her," he opened the door, allowing Sherlock and John into the room where the body had been found. There was a blonde woman, dressed all in bright pink, lying face down on the floor of the dirty disused room, a scratching in the wood before her.

The trio stood there, silent, just looking at the body.

"Shut up," Sherlock glanced at Lestrade.

The man frowned, "I didn't say anything."

"You were _thinking_ ," he stated, holding up his phone and taking a picture, fiddling with the picture message, "It's annoying, stop."

Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sherlock walked over to the body, examining it. He inspected the woman with a small magnifying glass, touching her coat and jewelry with his glove-covered hands, inspecting the 'RACHE' scratched out on the floor, noticing every detail about the woman.

"Got anything?" Lestrade called.

"Not much," he muttered, standing, turning away from the body as he pulled his phone out.

_When was the last time it rained w/ heavy winds?_  
**SH**

_Im sort of in the mid. of a case Locksley_  
**L**

_Just answer the ?_  
**SH**

_How'm I supposed 2 no what the weather in Cardiff was like?_  
**L**

He grinned, _knew_ it. She was always keeping an eye on the weather if only to text him at ungodly hours and remind him to take an umbrella or not to forget his sunscreen or something as ridiculously unimportant.

_Excellent_  
**SH**

_Ass_  
**L**

"She's German," Anderson called, appearing in the doorway, pulling Sherlock from his moment, "'Rache.' It's German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something..."

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock remarked.

"So she's German?" Lestrade frowned.

"Of course she's not," Sherlock scoffed, "She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Sorry," John shook his head, " _Obvious_?"

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to John, "Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John blinked.

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"We have a whole team right outside…" Lestrade began.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock waved him off.

"I'm breaking every rule letting YOU in here…"

"Yes..." he smirked, "Because you need me."

"Yes, I do," Lestrade sighed, "God help me."

"Dr. Watson!"

"Hmm?" John looked at Lestrade for permission.

Lestrade shook his head, "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself. Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes..."

"Well?" John looked at Sherlock, "What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock replied as his phone buzzed.

_I like hr shoes_  
**L**

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," John remarked.

"This is more fun," Sherlock countered.

" _Fun_? There's a woman lying _dead_..."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I WAS hoping you'd go deeper."

"Yeah..." John sighed, moving towards the body to kneel down, moving his leg to help himself, before looking over the body, "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

Sherlock nodded, tapping on his phone.

_What do u no. JW not a complete idiot_  
**SH**

"You know what it was, you've read the papers," Sherlock muttered, getting a text back.

_U r mean :(_  
**L**

He rolled his eyes at that as John spoke, "Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth…"

"Sherlock," Lestrade called, "Two minutes I said, I need anything you got."

"Victim is in her late 30s," Sherlock stated, "Professional person, going by her clothes, I'm guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today intending to stay in London one night from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade frowned.

"Yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…"

Sherlock sighed, people were SO slow!

_Getting back 2 the case..._  
**SH**

"Her wedding ring," he pointed absently at the body, "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. The inside is shinier than the outside. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands so who DOES she remove her rings for? Not ONE lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that long so more likely a _string_ of them."

"Brilliant," John blinked, before noticing the others looked unamused, "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade shook his head.

"It's obvious too, isn't it?" Sherlock looked at them, to see them staring blankly.

"It's not obvious to _me_."

"Dear God," he sighed, frowning at them, "What is it _like_ in your funny little brains, it must be so boring," he turned to the woman again, pointing out what he'd learned, "Her coat, it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain the last few hours, no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her pocket but it's dry and unused. Not _just_ wind, _strong_ wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" he held up his phone, "Cardiff."

"Fantastic," John smiled, impressed.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock turned to him when his phone pinged.

_Where's it?_  
**L**

"Sorry, I'll shut up," John commented.

"No, it's..." Sherlock muttered, "Fine."

_Where's what?_  
**SH**

"Why do you keep saying the suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

_SuitCASE_  
**L**

Sherlock blinked and looked around, just noticing it appeared to be missing, "Yes, where _is_ it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel?'" Lestrade eyed the scratching.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German," he replied sarcastically, "Of course she was writing 'Rachel,' no other word it can be. Why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?"

Sherlock smirked, glancing at the woman's shoes, "Tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand, by that splash pattern. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes conscious, could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Where is it, what have you done with it?"

As though hearing him speak, his phone pinged.

_Evn THEY rn't mad enough 2 touch evidence_  
**L**

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade remarked.

"Say that again," Sherlock spun to him.

If THEY hadn't seen it…then how was it missing _now_?

Some ELSE had to have taken it!

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

"Suitcase!" he laughed, quickly sending a text.

_Brilliant!_  
**SH**

"Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"There was no case…"

"But they take the poison themselves, swallow the pills. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, thanks. And…"

"It's _murder_ , all of them. I don't know how. But they're _not_ suicides, they're serial _killings_. We've got a serial killer. There's always something to look forward to."

_Serial killer!_  
**SH**

"Why are you saying that?"

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone _else_ was here, and _they_ took her case. So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left it there," John shook his head.

"No, look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..."

The phone pinged.

_GL w/ that_  
**L**

He shook his head, realizing something, "Oh...oh!"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade eyed him, "What is it, what?"

"Serial killers, always the hard. You have to _wait_ for them to make a mistake."

She would know that better than anyone, she'd dealt with more of them than he had in her job.

"We can't just _wait_!" Lestrade shouted.

"Oh, we're done waiting," he sent another text.

_Preliminary profile?_  
**SH**

"Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?"

"Pink!" he shouted, grinning as he checked his phone, rushing out of the room.

_Working on it_  
**L**

He smirked, tossing his phone and catching it before slipping it into his pocket. She'd get back to him with her best guess soon enough and then…then he'd have a serial killer to spot.

So excited was he that he didn't even realize he'd left John behind.

~8~

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, unwrapping nicotine patches to use, he could feel the temptation to light up coming and had gone immediately for the patches. He'd promised to give up the smokes. Yes, he wasn't a man who kept his word very often, but he _did_ with _her_. They did with each other. She'd promised to come back, he promised to be clean when she did.

His phone pinged and he scooped it up, eyeing the rather long text, not really a text, an email.

_Prelim Prof…_

_Older man, mid sixties, very ordinary. Must be unnoticed in a crowd, blends in. Has access to transport, is very familiar with the city and locations. Must be as he has placed the bodies in locations he knew to be empty at certain times. Would also have to be someone who is overlooked, that you see every day but don't notice. It would have to be someone that the victims would trust for a short time without question, follow them places without noticing, to these unusual locations. Lestrade was right about that, they had no reason to be there. The manner of the deaths, the locations, doesn't fit the profile I see in him. He'd want to prove his ability, be able to go on longer than anyone...to put them in such places where discovery is eventual, he WANTS them to be found. I doubt it is for mass fear otherwise they wouldn't be portrayed as suicides. No, he wants them public information as_ proof _of the murder's completion._

_Sorry Locksley, you're dealing with two people. A planner, and an enforcer. The murderer is the enforcer._

"Damn," he muttered, unsure whether to be pleased that there were technically TWO serial killers out there, much to his interest, or annoyed that he'd only picked up on the one killer. He sighed, she was better at working out the killers, like he was better at working out the victims and the crime scene.

He reached over and grabbed another two patches, this was a three-patch problem now. He lay back on the sofa, reading the rest of the email.

_The planner, he'd have to be well connected, wealthy, and have quite the influence to be able to manipulate someone to murder. To do so, so intricately, leads me to believe that he's clever, and since it isn't graphic or gruesomely done, this isn't the result a traumatic incident in his past. This is for sport. But he doesn't want to be personally connected, he wants other to think it's your murderer, he won't get his own hands dirty but has others do it for him. He's narcissistic. Careful. Methodical. Even practical and sophisticated, masking them as suicides. I'd wager a young man, late-20s, early-30s, wants to prove himself, possibly an up-and-comer._

_But you should really focus on the enforcer for now Locksley, you'd get more information, maybe even a name out of him. Send me more info when you get it, I'll update the profile._

_AML  
Leena_

He nodded, sending a quick 'Thanks,' knowing she wouldn't get offended by his one word reply. She knew that, by now, he was in the throes of working on this case. He dropped the phone onto his chest, clenching his fist to get the nicotine flowing, staring up at the ceiling, thinking…

Until John stepped through the door and looked at him lying there, "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch," he pulled up his sleeve to reveal the patches, "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for breathing."

"Oh...breathing," he sneered, "Breathing's boring."

"Is that...three patches?"

"It's a three-patch problem."

"Well...you asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he nodded absently, "Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John blinked, looking at Sherlock's phone lying on his chest.

"Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"I WAS the other side of London…"

"There was no hurry."

John sighed and handed over his phone, "Here...so what's this about…the case?"

"The case…" he closed his eyes.

"HER case?"

"Her suitcase, yes," he opened his eyes, "Obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Ok," John shook his head, "He took her case. So?"

"It's no use," Sherlock sighed, "There's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text," he held John's phone out to him.

"You've brought me here...to send a text?"

"Text, yes. The number on my desk."

John stared at him a moment longer before sighing and walking over, taking the phone back. He turned to walk towards the desk, glancing out the window as he'd been doing periodically on the way.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, seeing his constant peeking.

"Just met a friend of yours," he remarked, thinking to how he'd been basically kidnapped.

He'd been walking down the road from the crime scene, trying to hail a cab, when the payphones began to ring. He'd answered one, a man telling him to look at the security cameras that were moving away from him. Then he'd been picked up by a car, a lovely woman sitting in the back, texting, till they arrived at an old warehouse. He'd met an older man there who had reminded him a little of Sherlock, he'd made deductions about him as well, but the man was also far more stiff, wearing a suit, more...professional...

"A friend?" Sherlock frowned, the only friend he had was halfway across the world, she wouldn't be here…not without telling him…

"An enemy."

Ah, _that_ made more sense.

"Oh. Which one?"

John gave him a look at the fact he had more than one, "Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?" he glanced over.

"No."

"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

John rolled his eyes, "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number…"

John looked at the number, frowning, "Jennifer Wilson? That was...hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes," John sighed, putting in the number.

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah…hang on!"

"These words _exactly_. 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"

John looked at him, alarmed, "You blacked out?"

"What?" his head snapped to the side, "No...no!" he quickly got up and stepped over the coffee table, "Type and send it. Quickly. Have you sent it?" he asked, walking past John to pull a pink suitcase from near the fireplace.

"What's the address?"

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" he set the case down and opened it, falling back into a chair to look at its contents.

"That's..." John blinked, turning to see the case, "That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously," he glanced up at John before rolling his eyes, "Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did," he defended.

"Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Now and then, yes."

"Ok…" he shook his head, "How _did_ you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?" he frowned.

"The killer must have _driven_ her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car," he had to agree with the email there, car, it would be quite obvious to anyone trying to lug a body through London on foot, "Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which _is_ statistically more likely," and he agreed there, "So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink," John realized, "You got all that because you realized the case would be _pink_?"

"It _had_ to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that…"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock replied quickly, before noticing John looking at him, "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically _everyone_ is. Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her _phone_. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We _know_ she had one. You just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at the home?"

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home."

"Er..." John blinked, realizing, "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone NOW?"

"She could have lost it," John suggested, REALLY not wanting his next thought to be true.

"Yes, or…"

"The murderer...you think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry..." John shook his head, alarmed, "What are we doing? Did I just _text_ a _murderer_? What good will _that_ do?"

John's phone suddenly started ringing, the number unlisted.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first watched Sherlock, I noticed he used his phone a lot for his searches and things, and when he mentioned that he preferred to text...it made me wonder, what if he was texting someone during those scenes instead? And who would it be? My answer, an OC of course lol :) We've now been introduced to Leena, but who exactly is she? Is that really her name? Is it Jackie Holmes? Or something else? What is her story with Sherlock? It'll definitely be coming up. I really wanted to introduce her in a new way, where we get hints of her personality, her history with Sherlock, how well she knows him, but we don't actually meet her outright.
> 
> We WILL actually physically see her soon though, so don't worry, she will exist and be there at some point. But I wanted to show that, she clearly has a long history with Sherlock and, despite not being there, is an active presence in his life and a resident of his Mind Palace :)
> 
> Also, tiny little treat...this will be a VERY minor crossover with another show I love, where Leena is and what she's been doing, what show it is, will be revealed more so in The Great Game :)


	2. A Study in Pink: Mobile Distractions

"A few hours after his last victim," Sherlock grinned, eyeing the ringing pink mobile, "And now he receives a text that can _only_ be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the _murderer_...would panic," he got up and walked over to the door, pulling on his suit jacket.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked.

"Four people are dead, there isn't time."

"So why are you talking to ME?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," he remarked, pulling his coat on.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, you could just sit there and...watch telly," he shrugged, pulling his blue scarf on.

"What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...problem?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What about her?"

"She said...you get off on this. You _enjoy_ it."

Sherlock smirked, "And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are," and with that, he turned and strode out the door.

"Damn it!" John muttered, grabbing his cane and following him out of the flat and onto the street, "Where are we going?" he called out, tugging his coat closer in the chill, catching up to Sherlock as he fiddled with his phone.

_JW met BomE_  
**SH**

"Northumberland Street's a 5 minute walk from here," Sherlock replied, starting off down the road.

"You think he's stupid enough to _go_ there?" John frowned, following, limping along.

"No, I think he's _brilliant_ enough," he smiled, "I _love_ the brilliant ones. They're all so _desperate_ to get caught."

And he agreed with the profile there as well, all the bodies had been in locations that would open to the public or that others would visit. They were just _begging_ to be brought to the media's attention.

_How is dear Mycroft?_  
**L**

"Why?" John asked, eyeing Sherlock as he smiled at his phone.

_U tell me. He contacted u 2_  
**SH**

"Appreciation!" he turned to John, "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John, it needs an audience."

"Yeah," John nodded, seeing a similar trait in Sherlock.

_He wanted a profile on JW_  
**L**

_Did u give it?_  
**SH**

"This is his hunting ground," he explained to John, waiting for a reply text, "Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were _abducted_ , that changes _everything_. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" he glanced at his phone as it pinged.

_Me? Help MYCROFT? The Bane of ur Existence? U took 3 patches didnt u?_  
**L**

He couldn't help but let out a chuckle at that. She knew him. Very well. He quickly explained just what the case was.

_Its a 3 patch problem_  
**SH**

"Don't know," John shrugged, pulling Sherlock's thoughts away from the phone, "Who?"

"Haven't the faintest," he slipped the phone into his pocket and stopped before a quaint Italian restaurant, "Hungry?" he stepped in, a man coming to greet him, "Thank you, Billy," he nodded as the waiter led them to a table right in the front, beside the street window, "22 Northumberland Street," he nodded outside at the corner, "Keep your eyes on it."

John glanced over his shoulder at the building before turning to Sherlock, "He's not just going to ring the doorbell. He'd need to be mad."

"He of HAS killed four people."

"Ok," John had to concede to that.

"Sherlock!" a man shouted, coming over to the table, an apron around him, clearly the owner, "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock glanced at John.

"I'm not his the date," John had to stress before another word was spoken.

"This man got me off a murder charge!" the owner grinned, pushing Sherlock's shoulder joyfully.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced, "Three years ago I proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was elsewhere, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name!"

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing. But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did_ go to prison."

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," Angelo called as he stepped away to head to the back.

"I'm not his date!" John called after him.

"You may as well eat," Sherlock remarked, "We might have a long wait."

"Thanks," John huffed, still put off that the man, and probably half the restaurant now, thought he was on a date with Sherlock, "People don't have archenemies."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock glanced away from the corner he'd been staring at.

"In real life. There're no archenemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who _did_ I meet?"

"What do real people have then, in their...real lives?"

"Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don't like...girlfriends, boyfriends..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying…dull."

"You don't have a…" John wondered, not that it was a hard stretch of the imagination to picture Sherlock single. The man owned a human skull!

Sherlock eyed him, "Girlfriend?" he shook his head and returned his attention to the corner, "No, not really my area."

"Mmm," he nodded, "Oh, right," but then Angelo's belief that they were on a date hit him, "Do you have a...boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend then."

"No."

"Right. Ok. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."

"John, er…" he hesitated, glancing at John, "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered, I'm really _not_ looking for any…"

"No!" John gaped, "I'm... _not_ asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine."

"Good," he nodded, "Thank you," he added as a waiter placed a plate of pasta before John, when something caught his eye across the street, "Look across the street," he whispered to John, "Taxi. It's stopped. Nobody getting in and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him!" John gasped, staring out the window at a person sitting in the back of the cab.

"Don't stare."

John turned back to him, " _You're_ staring."

"We can't _both_ stare!"

And with that, Sherlock was out of his seat, rushing out of the restaurant, John behind him. They ran across the street just as the cab pulled away.

"Sorry..." John called as they watched the cab drive off, "I've got the cab number..."

"Good for you," Sherlock nodded, before looking down at his phone, an app popping up, "Right turn, one way, road works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights…"

"Sorry?" John frowned, not having a clue what Sherlock was going on about.

Sherlock just took off, running around, muttering to himself as they ran, climbing up buildings, rushing across rooftops, jumping down fire escapes, trying to beat the cab.

"Come on, John..." Sherlock called, "Come on, John. We're losing him. This way. No…THIS way!"

"Sorry…" John panted as they came to the street to see their cab pulling up to a light.

"Police!" Sherlock shouted, running over to the cab, holding up an ID badge, "Open her up!" he yanked the door open to see a man sitting there, confused. He frowned, eyeing the rather tan, long-haired man, "No…teeth, tan. What…" he glanced at the man's bags, "Californian…LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How could you possibly know that?" John shook his head.

"The luggage," Sherlock sighed, nodding at the case with stickers on it, "Probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the cabbie's route."

"Sorry…are you guys the police?" the passenger blinked.

"Yeah. Everything alright?"

"…yeah?"

"Welcome to London," Sherlock offered him a smile.

"Er, any problems," John played along, "Just let us know," he shut the door, Sherlock having already turned to walk away to return back to the flat, texting someone as he jogged over, "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically," Sherlock nodded, sending out the text before opening a new one.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer," he sighed, "No," tapping on his phone.

_Thnks 4 the app_  
**SH**

She had had a friend create it for him. It automatically kept up-to-date on the traffic of London, letting him know what was running, what routes were up, where work was being done, when the lights would change. Made it so much easier to leave space in his Mind Palace for the important information.

"Wrong country, good alibi," John commented.

"As they go," he nodded, seeing a reply.

_NP_  
**L**

"Hey, where did you get this?" John asked, looking at the ID Sherlock had used, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah," he slipped his phone into his pocket, "I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat," he glanced over to see John looking at him, "What?"

"Nothing, just..." he laughed, "'Welcome to London?'"

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked as they approached Baker Street.

"Ok..." John nodded as they stepped up to the flat, "That was...ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing...I've _ever_ done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan."

"That wasn't _just_ me," he frowned, eyeing the door to 221, "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Oh..." Sherlock trailed, shrugging, needing to wait till the right time to admit it, to get John to realize something, "Just passing the time. And a proving a point."

"What point?"

"You," he smirked, opening the door and stepping in with John, "Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson WILL take the room upstairs!"

"Says who?"

Sherlock nodded at the door, "Says the man at the door."

John looked over to see Angelo, the owner of the restaurant, having just stepped up behind them in the doorway, "Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this," he held out John's cane.

"Ah..." John blinked, realizing he'd run _all that way_ without even _thinking_ about his leg, "Er, thank you," he reached out to take the cane, before glancing back at Sherlock as the man smirked. And he realized exactly why Sherlock had wanted him to come, what he'd been planning, what he'd just done for him, "Thank you."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called as she stepped out of the kitchen, Angelo leaving, "What have you the done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" he turned to her, confused.

"Upstairs."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he dashed up the stairs, John following him, "What are you doing?!" he shouted as he stepped into 221B to see Lestrade and half the policemen of the city in the room, searching through the books and kitchen and everywhere else, poking around, shifting papers, moving items, contaminating his experiments, touching his things!

"Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid," Lestrade remarked.

"You can't just break into my flat!"

"You can't withhold evidence," he countered, "And I didn't break in…"

"Well, what do you call _this_ then?"

"It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously?" John scoffed at that, " _This_ guy," he pointed at Sherlock, "A _junkie_? Have you _met_ him?"

"John…" Sherlock began, shaking his head.

"You could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"John, you probably want to shut up now," Sherlock hissed.

"But come on..." John started to roll his eyes, before noticing the look Sherlock was giving him. His eyes widened, "No…"

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock rubbed his head.

He was _not_ a junkie…

Anymore.

He hadn't been in _years_ at least. He had been at one point, he admitted it. He'd gotten bored one day, so terribly bored that he'd started to experiment with morphine and other chemicals. He'd gotten hooked. It had been… _bad_ …a truly terrible point in his life. He'd been horrible to those who cared about him most…until desperate measures had been taken.

Till his best friend had saved him.

He'd come home, too strung out to notice that it wasn't _his_ home. He'd trusted her to get him to his house, to his drugs, but she'd brought him to hers instead. She'd brought him to her room, locked him in there with her, and let him sleep off the first of the drugs in his system. When he'd woken, realized where he was, that there were no substances there that he could use, he'd lashed out.

 _Three days_.

They say if you make it over the three day hump, you're in the clear. _They_ just never talk about the hell that comes before the end of that third day. He'd lashed out at her, said horrible, painful things, he'd even threatened her, he'd actually _hit_ her.

Once.

And then she'd punched him in the face.

She'd broken his nose and let him have it verbally as well. She was _not_ one to sit back when injustice happened, especially against her. But she'd waited it out. She'd stayed with him, keeping him calm, holding him as the withdrawal hit him, fed him when his shaking had gotten too bad. She hadn't abandoned him and, when that third day passed, and he was able to see clearer what he'd _become_ , what he'd _done_ …

He'd sworn then and there, never again. He'd _never_ do that to her _again_. _Ever_.

They had a system.

If ever he got _that_ bored that he was tempted, he'd call her, whatever hour of the day, and she'd pose him a challenge. Whether it was a riddle she'd come up with, or telling him about her latest case to see if he could solve it, or a scavenger hunt through the city for the most ridiculous objects, it kept him entertained and distracted enough that the craving would pass. Sometimes, when she wasn't working a case and could spend hours just talking, it could distract him to the point HE forgot why he'd called in the first place.

But…he DID keep one or two of the drugs in the flat. Because, always after the craving passed, or on days when a weak craving would hit, he'd look at the drugs and think, 'No. I'm stronger than you. _I_ control my mind, not you.' And, it sounded silly, he knew that, but, to be honest, he really would feel stronger than the drugs.

He kept them as reminders _not_ to go down that path. But if the police _did_ find them, he would be in trouble.

"I'm not your sniffer dog!" he snapped at Lestrade, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

"No, _Anderson's_ my sniffer dog," Lestrade replied quickly.

"Anderson," Sherlock sneered, as though just noticing the smug-looking man, "What are YOU doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson grinned.

"They _all_ did," Lestrade sighed, "They're not, strictly speaking, ON the drug squad, but they're very keen."

"Are these human eyes?" Donovan called, stepping out of the kitchen.

"Put those back!" Sherlock shouted, glaring at her.

"They were in the _microwave_!"

"It's an _experiment_ ," he waved her off, pulling out his phone. He needed a streak of sanity here.

_Drugs bust_  
**SH**

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade called, "Or...you could help us _properly_ and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," Sherlock remarked as his phone pinged.

_What, again?_  
**L**

He smiled at that, chuckling at her response. Others who knew his past, like his BomE, his archenemy, might become paranoid, fully believing that he'd gone down that path again. But she always could see through his words, she _knew_ him, better than anyone…she _trusted_ him. She knew that the fact he was _telling_ her about it meant he was _clean_. That he was just _annoyed_. The fact that she'd asked about it happening 'again' meant that she knew this was a ruse by the police to force his hand, to irritate him, and that he needed to be calmed.

She knew they'd never find the drugs he did have.

And she knew he had them.

She knew he wouldn't use them.

Because he'd promised her.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," Lestrade countered, snatching the phone out of Sherlock's hand, seeing him getting distracted. Sherlock just glared and snatched it back, putting it in his pocket for safety. Lestrade sighed, "Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I'm _letting_ you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

"What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" he scoffed.

"It stops being pretend if we find anything."

"I am _clean_!"

"Is your _flat_?" he countered, " _All_ of it?"

"Don't even smoke!" Sherlock pulled back his sleeve to reveal the patches.

"Neither do I," Lestrade pulled back his own sleeve to reveal his own patch, "So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter?" he frowned, pulling out his phone to send a text.

_Rachel = daughter_  
**SH**

"Why would she write her daughter's name?" he wondered, "Why?"

"Never mind that," Anderson cut in, "We found the case. According to SOMEONE the _murderer_ has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

_Password_  
**L**

"I'm a high-functioning _sociopath_ ," he corrected Anderson, frowning at the reply.

_What password?_  
**SH**

"Do your research. You need to bring Rachel in and I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade replied.

"Excellent. How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for 14 years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, 14 years ago."

"No," he frowned, "That's...that's not right. How...why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson eyed him, "Yup, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

"She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her _fingernails_. She was _dying_. It took _effort_ , it would have _hurt_."

_Stillborn_  
**SH**

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves," John commented, "That he MAKES them take it, well, maybe he...I don't know...talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago," Sherlock waved him off, "Why would she _still_ be upset?" he looked around at the silence that followed to see everyone staring at him. He glanced at John, "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

His phone pinged and he looked down.

_Passwords r close 2 u. Rachel's hr little grl. Rachel's hr password_  
**L**

Sherlock started to smirk.

_U r BRILLIANT!_  
**SH**

It really _was_ brilliant having her to throw ideas at. She was so unattached to the case, so distant she could see things he might have missed. If he threw a word at her, the first thing that popped into her mind typically would set off an epiphany for him, because he was looking at everything through a microscope, but her through a telescope.

_I no :)_  
**L**

"If you were dying..." he looked at the others, now having a new piece of the puzzle, before turning to John, "If you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live?" John replied.

"Use your imagination!"

"I don't have to," John said seriously, reminding Sherlock of his time in the war.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yeah, but if you were _clever_ , _really_ clever...Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she WAS clever. She's trying to _tell_ us something."

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson asked, walking up the stairs, "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi," he snapped, pacing, "Go away."

"Oh, dear," she frowned, looking around at the room, "They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John explained to her.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers…"

"Shut up, everybody!" Sherlock snapped, "Don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What?" Anderson scoffed, "My FACE is?"

"Everybody quiet," Lestrade ordered, seeing a look in Sherlock's eye that he knew meant he was an inch away from solving something, "And still. Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson grumbled.

"Your back, now, please!" Lestrade glared at him till he turned around.

"Come on, think," Sherlock rubbed his head, "Quick!"

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"MRS. HUDSON!" he shouted, turning on her as she dashed off to speak to the taxi, before quieting, realizing something, "Oh...ah! She was _clever_. Clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it?" he started to pace, "She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never _lost_ it. She PLANTED it on him. When she got out of the car, she _knew_ that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade shook his head.

"What do you mean, how? Rachel! Don't you see? Rachel!" he looked at them, but they all just stared at him blankly, "Oh...look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" John asked from where he'd sat down on an armchair.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

"Er," John sighed and turned to the case beside him, reading it as Sherlock moved to a small desk with a laptop open, "jenny-pink-at-mephone-org-uk."

"She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone," Sherlock explained, bringing up the information on the laptop as John and Lestrade wandered over, "A smartphone, it's e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address and, all together, the password is…"

"Rachel," John guessed.

"So we can read her e-mails," Anderson rolled his eyes from the back of the room, "So what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much _more_ than that. It's a _smartphone_ , it's got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her!"

"What if he got rid of it?" Lestrade frowned.

"We know he didn't," John countered.

"Come on, come on," Sherlock muttered as the program ran, "Quickly!"

"Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson called again, "This taxi driver…"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock pushed himself out of his seat to stride over to her in the doorway as John took his place, "Isn't it time for your evening soother?" he turned to Lestrade, speaking quietly, "Get vehicles, get a helicopter. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade reminded him.

"It's the start!"

"Sherlock…" John called as the map zoomed in.

"Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned to John, "Where is it? Quickly, where?"

"Here, it's..." he frowned at the blinking dot, "In 221 Baker Street."

"How can it be _here_?" Sherlock frowned, when he heard someone walking up the stairs, "How?"

"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it...fell out somewhere," Lestrade suggested.

But Sherlock's gaze had drifted over to the man standing in the shadows behind Mrs. Hudson, the cab driver who had come up, "What, and I didn't notice it? Me… _I_ didn't notice?"

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John turned to Lestrade.

And _that_ was when he realized…

"Guys," Lestrade turned to the others, "We're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim..."

Everything he'd asked John about the killer, everything the email had said in the profile. Someone who blended in, with transport, that we trust without knowing them, who was just a nameless face, but knew locations…

The cab driver standing right before him, an old man with stubble and glasses, in an old vest and cap.

"Sherlock," John called, seeing him staring out the door, "You ok? What…"

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded, "I'm fine."

The cab driver smirked.

"So, how can the phone be here?" John asked.

"Don't know," he called distractedly as the driver turned and headed back down the stairs.

"I'll try it again," John sighed.

"Good idea," Sherlock nodded, putting his coat on.

"Where are you going?" John frowned.

"Fresh air, just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

"You sure you're alright?" John frowned, Sherlock was acting strange...well, stranger than normal.

"I'm fine," Sherlock called back as he stepped out of the flat and down the stairs. He paused as he stepped outside, seeing the older man, the cab driver standing there, leaning on the black cab.

"Taxi for of Sherlock Holmes," the man smirked.

"I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one."

"You're the cabbie," he recognized from when they chased down the American, "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was _you_. Not your passenger."

"See? No one ever thinks about the _cabbie_ **.** It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

"Is this a confession?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll tell you what else...if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"'Cos you're not going to do that."

"I'm not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to 'em...and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I'll promise you one thing," he leaned forward, "I will _never_ tell you what I said."

"No one else will die though," Sherlock called as the cabbie moved around the back of his car, "And I believe they call that a result."

He paused, "And you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" he got into the cab and waited.

Sherlock glanced around, before eyeing the cabbie as he pulled out his phone.

_Found him_  
**SH**

He waited only 27 seconds, he counted, before a soft vibration hit his hand and he looked down.

_B careful. B smart. Txt me._  
**L**

He smirked, all the encouragement he needed.

The warnings he could do without, but she _always_ did that. Reminded him to be careful and not do anything stupid. Because she _knew_ he could handle himself and that he'd tell her everything when it was over. And if she decided he'd been even a _smidge_ less than his clever old self, he'd never hear the end of it.

He nodded to himself, slipping the phone into his pocket and walking up to the cab, leaning down to look in at the driver, "If I wanted to understand…what would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't want to kill you, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to talk to ya…" he smirked, "And then you're going to kill yourself."

Sherlock eyed him a moment as the man turned to look back out the front window before slipping into the backseat. The cabbie started the car and pulled away, the pink phone in his pocket starting to ring moments later. Sherlock looked out the window at the passing lights, knowing it was probably John, waiting till the ringing stopped before speaking, "How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognized ya," the cabbie commented, "Soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it."

His eyes narrowed as he looked ahead, " _Who_ warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed."

"Who? Who would notice _me_?"

"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes."

He smirked, "I've been told I'm really not."

"Got yourself a fan."

"Tell me more."

"That's all you're going to know. In THIS lifetime."

They drove for a few more minutes before pulling up to a tall, regal building, "Where are we?" Sherlock asked as the man got out of the cab and walked around to open his door.

"You know every street in London," the cabbie remarked, "You know _exactly_ where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," he answered, "Why here?"

"It's open," the man shrugged, "Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" the man pulled a handgun on him, "Oh..." he sighed, rolling his eyes, "Dull."

"Don't worry. It gets better."

"You can't make people take their own lives at the force of arms."

The cabbie smirked, "I don't. It's much _better_ than that. Don't need this with _you_ ," he put the gun away, "'Cos you'll follow me."

He turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock in the cab for a moment.

_Roland-Kerr_  
**SH**

He texted quickly, before getting out of the cab and heading off after the cabbie, who had yet to look back, which meant he missed the text Sherlock received as well.

_Gotcha_  
**L**

He nodded, that would be all he needed.

~8~

Back in 221B Baker Street, John Watson walked over to his laptop, the program to trace the phone now stopped. He grabbed an item off the table beside it and turned, when there was a ping.

He frowned and turned around, walking back to the laptop to see the screen had gone black.

' _Roland-Kerr Further Education College_ ' were the white words blinking against the background, ' _Find Sherlock._ '

He blinked and the image cut off to a map, the blinking dot now on the location that had just been mentioned. His eyes widened as he realized what had happened, where Sherlock had gone, before grabbing his computer and dashing out.

~8~

Sherlock sat in the back of an ambulance, his phone out before him, fiddling with it as he sent a text.

_Spot on_  
**SH**

He'd been led into a lecture room, shown two identical white pills in two identical bottles by the cabbie. Apparently one was poison, the other was safe. The cabbie gave him one and asked him if it had been the one that was poison or safe, whether or not he'd like to trade. He'd baited him, admittedly, playing on his knowledge of chance and deduction to see if he could tell which pill he'd been given, challenging him. The cabbie had pretended to be a genius of the same caliber, but that was just like the profile, the enforcer, but _not_ the planner, trying to make everyone believe _he_ was the _only_ killer. But he'd seen through that, it was also like the profile, the reason he was doing these murders. The planner had given him a large sum of money, he'd learned, for the man's children, him being an estranged father and near death's door with a looming aneurism. He'd also learned that this fan of his was just like him it seemed, enjoyed a good murder but, unlike him, he enjoyed _creating_ them not solving them.

He'd been baited, his boredom being brought up, his need to be right. When he'd picked his pill, the man had nearly gotten him to take it, _nearly_ being the operative word. But then…someone had shot through the window, wounding and stopping the cabbie. He'd managed to use the man's wound against him, getting the name of this sponsor of his.

Moriarty.

_Of course :)_  
**L**

He smiled, quickly texting.

_He's dead_  
**SH**

_& ur alive_  
**L**

He laughed, an expert counter.

_Im glad_  
**L**

She added, and he smiled again…until he felt a red blanket being put around his shoulders. He looked over at Lestrade as he walked over, "Why have I got this blanket? They _keep_ putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock," the man replied.

"I'm not in shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

"So, the shooter. No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but...we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he smirked.

"Ok, give me."

He stood up, deducing the shooter based solely on the shot, "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so, clearly, he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man, probably with a history of military service, and..." he trailed off, spotting John standing amongst the crowd, "Nerves of steel..." he shook his head, realizing who the shooter was, and turned to Lestrade, "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade's eyes widened.

It wasn't often you heard THAT from Sherlock Holmes.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the er...the," he sighed, " _Shock_ talking."

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called as he walked off.

"I just need to...talk about the rent."

"I've still got questions."

He paused and turned around, "What, now? I'm in shock, look," he tugged on the shock blanket, "I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock!"

"And I _just_ caught you a serial killer," he added, pulling the blanket off, "…more or less."

Lestrade sighed, "Ok, we'll pull you in tomorrow, off you go."

Sherlock smirked and walked over to John, just standing there with his arms behind him, calm, innocent…to everyone else's gaze.

"Er, Sergeant Donovan has...just been explaining everything," John remarked offhandedly, "The two pills...dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful."

"Good shot," Sherlock spoke.

"Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window."

"Well, you'd know," he gave John a look as the man glanced at him, "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case. Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man."

"Yes," he nodded slowly, realizing that, "That's true, isn't it? But he wasn't a very _nice_ man."

"No," Sherlock smirked, "No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"Frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

"That's true," Sherlock nodded, starting to walk off with John, "He _was_ a bad cabbie. You should have _seen_ the route he took us to get here."

"Stop it!" John laughed with him, "We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it."

"Well, you're the one who shot him."

"Keep your voice down," he cleared his throat as they passed another officer, trying to excuse their laughs, "Sorry, it's just er...nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock nodded at the officer too.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" John sighed, stopping. He'd seen Sherlock through the window across from the room he'd been in, the consulting detective an inch away from putting the pill in his mouth till he'd fired his gun at the cabbie.

Sherlock scoffed, turning to face him, "Course I wasn't. Biding my time," he smirked, squeezing his phone in his pocket, "Knew you'd turn up."

"No, you didn't," John scoffed, before eyeing him, "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Sherlock smirked, John and Leena would get along just fine when she came back, "Dinner?"

John nodded, starting to walk again, "Starving."

"End of Baker Street there's a good Chinese. Stays open till two. You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle."

"Sherlock..." John paused, spotting someone, the man who had kidnapped him before, getting out of a car before them, "That's him, that's the man I was talking to you about."

Sherlock sighed, his eyes narrowing as they walked over to the man, "I know _exactly_ who that is."

"So..." the man smirked, eyeing Sherlock, "Another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though pleased that he hadn't brought up his _real_ reason for making all his deductions, "What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern…'"

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud…" Sherlock rolled his eyes, it wasn't _petty_ , it was _personal_ , he'd never forgive him for it, "Between us is simply _childish_. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy."

" _I_ upset her?" Sherlock scoffed, " _Me_? It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

"No," John cut in, "No, wait...mummy? Who's mummy?"

"Mother. _Our_ mother. This is my brother, Mycroft," he eyed the man, "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft glared.

" _He's_ your _brother_?" John gaped.

"Course he's my brother," Sherlock sighed.

"So he's not ..."

"Not what?"

"I do not know...the criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock muttered, glaring at Mycroft.

"For goodness sake!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I occupy a _minor_ position in the British government."

"He IS the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft," he turned to go, "Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does for the traffic."

"So, when you say you're concerned about him…you actually _are_ concerned?" John eyed Mycroft.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft nodded.

"I mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?"

"He's always been _so_ resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah..." he trailed off, shaking his head, "No...God, no. I'd better of er," he nodded to follow Sherlock, but caught sight of the woman from the car standing beside Mycroft, "Hello again."

"Hello," she greeted, looking at her phone, texting away.

"We met in earlier on this evening."

"Oh!"

John nodded, seeing she was uninterested, "Ok. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Dr. Watson," Mycroft nodded as John jogged off after Sherlock.

"So, dim sum," John caught up, "Mmm!"

"I can always predict the fortune cookies," Sherlock commented.

"No, you can't."

"Almost can. You _did_ get shot, though."

"Sorry?" John blinked at the sudden change in topic.

"In Afghanistan. There _was_ an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah, shoulder."

"Shoulder!" he smirked, "I thought so."

"No, you didn't."

"The left one."

John paused, "Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes, you do," he eyed Sherlock, seeing him grinning widely, "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

"I've absolutely no idea," Sherlock laughed as they turned a corner, under his brother's watchful eye.

"Sir," the woman called, seeing him still looking at the corner, "Shall we go?"

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft remarked, "He could be the making of my brother...or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three active."

"Sorry, sir, whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson," he grinned, "And tell the boys back in the office to commence 'Operation: Maid Marian.'"

~8~

Sherlock sat in the sitting room, lying on the sofa, his phone out. He'd sent an email ages ago about the case, all the details about it. She preferred it when he wrote down the cases for her to read, remembering the details better that way so when they next talked she could discuss them to the fullest with him.

_So…what do u think?_  
**SH**

_'Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line.'_  
**L**

He frowned.

_What?_  
**SH**

_'The Princess Bride.'_  
**L**

_& that matters 2 me y?_  
**SH**

_Im rolling my eyes at u_  
**L**

_Just answer the ? Leena_  
**SH**

_They were both poison_  
**L**

He blinked.

_He either ingested an antidote b4…_  
**L**

And frowned.

_Or built up an immunity 2 that poison_  
**L**

Before he got a sour look, she'd figured it out first and she wasn't even _there_!

"Damn," he muttered.

_Ur cursing me rn't u?_  
**L**

He glared at the phone.

_:)_  
**L**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, what is dear Mycroft up to now? What is 'Operation Maid Marian'? Hmmm...I guess we'll find out fairly soon :)
> 
> A little note/warning. Since we don't know a lot about Sherlock's past/childhood, I'm making a lot up. So, if you see something that isn't mentioned in the show, it would probably be best to assume it's an original thought/history to him or something I'm stretching. The chapters are also going to be getting much more descriptive, don't worry :) I focused a little too much on the texting and dialogue in these first two chapters, but we'll start to get more of Leena/Jackie/? so things will be getting more detailed :)


	3. The Blind Banker: A New Arrival

Sherlock Holmes was locked in an epic battle to the death in his little flat of 221B Baker Street. He fought, hand-to-hand, with a six-foot Sikh warrior in a turban, dressed in full traditional battle garb. The warrior lunged at him, a curved blade in his hand, which Sherlock jumped back to avoid. The warrior kicked him, knocking Sherlock back onto the table, swiping the blade once more, which Sherlock ducked, nicking the table.

There was a small ping from the mobile phone sitting on the arm of the sofa, which distracted the warrior long enough for Sherlock to tackle the man to the ground, the two of them wrestling, rolling around the carpet, dealing bitter blows. He turned to the side, dodging another thrust from the warrior's blade, when he suddenly pointed to the corner of the room.

"Hey!" he pointed.

The warrior, surprisingly, fell for it, and turned to look, only to be punched across the face when he turned back, knocked out.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and stood up, tugging at his shirt to straighten it, before reaching out to pick up his phone.

_Assassin from China or India?  
_ **L**

He blinked, startled by that question.

_How did u no?  
_ **SH**

He moved to step over the unconscious man on the floor to sit on the sofa when the phone pinged again.

_I texted b4, u didnt answer. U ALWAYS answer. There4 u were else wise detained. Only an attempt on ur life would take u away from ur phone  
_ **L**

_India_  
**SH**

He laughed, she was sharp. Almost too sharp when it came to him. No one he knew, not even his own brother, could read him like Leena could. She had noticed all these little quirks about him, how long he replied, how soon after she asked a question for him to be lying, even how to tell when he was attracted to someone, which he couldn't fathom how she knew as he was married to his work and had been for years.

_Oh! Wanted 2 remind u…u cn't txt me 2day. Im in the mid. of a TP case, will let u no when Im done_  
**L**

He frowned, he _hated_ days like this, when she and her team had been assigned a new case, a _top priority_ case. She often had no issues with him texting her, even while on a regular case, but the top priority, the _really_ serious, ones or the ones that involved her team, she refused to answer any non-emergency texts or calls. he respected that, he knew what it was like to need to commit yourself entirely to the problem at hand.

_Understood. Call l8r_  
**SH**

He sighed, leaning back on the sofa, before looking at the body, he supposed he should get rid of it before John came home from the shop.

~8~

A woman with blonde hair smirked as she stood in the airport. She pushed her sunglasses onto her head, her hair held back in a messy bun for her travels. She looked around, her charcoal gray eyes scanning the crowd as she stood with her one suitcase, waiting. She was wearing a white pea coat, a light gray jumper underneath with black pants and black converse, her casual clothes for travel.

"Jacqueline?" a voice spoke a few feet away.

She looked over, smiling at the man, "Greg!" she laughed, moving to hug him, "How are you?"

He laughed, pulling back, "Fine, fine, I hope your flight was alright?"

She nodded, "No turbulence at all, not even feeling jetlagged."

"Good," he smiled, "I've taken the next day or so off to get your test case over with."

Her phone buzzed and she looked down at it, apologetically smiling at him before checking her messages. She smirked, seeing the new message, before looking up at Greg once more, "And there'll be no interruptions till we're finished."

He nodded, ever being the gentleman and taking her suitcase, leading her out, hoping they'd be able to get this case solved without other interruptions in the form of a sociopath coming to light.

~8~

Sherlock sat on the sofa, his mobile in his hands, staring at it, when the door opened and John entered, flustered and empty handed.

"You took your time," he commented, eyeing John before returning his attention to his phone.

"Er...I didn't get the shopping," John sighed.

"What? Why not?"

"I had a row in the shop. With the chip and pin machine."

Sherlock frowned, not understanding, "You had a row…with a machine?"

"Well, sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

"Take my card," he nodded at the table.

John walked over, digging in Sherlock's wallet and pulling out his card, "You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning," he glanced at Sherlock as he sat there, staring at his phone as though willing it to ring, "You haven't moved since I went out. What happened about that case you were offered? The Jaria diamond..."

"Not interested," Sherlock glanced down, spotting the Sikh's blade under his foot, the room otherwise removed of the warrior's presence, "I sent them a message," he kicked the blade under the sofa.

John glanced at a scuff on the table, a nick, before sighing and heading out again.

Sherlock blinked, staring at his phone before shaking his head. He needed a distraction, priority cases could take Leena _ages_ before she could get back to him. He shouldn't have expected it to be over in the last thirty minutes. He wasn't there and she wasn't to text or call out either so he couldn't offer his opinion.

He looked around the room, grinning as he spotted John's laptop.

His _password protected_ laptop.

~8~

The black car pulled up to a flat, Jacqueline stepping out with Greg, looking up at the tall building before them. Greg nodded to the side and she followed him into the main doors. He flashed his badge, getting in, being given a key in the process before leading her up the lift six floors, to a man's flat. They wandered in, heading for the bedroom, only to stop short, seeing a man lying there, dead, seeming to have shot himself.

"Well?" Greg looked at her.

He was technically off today, having gotten this call just before he'd stepped out to get Jacqueline. He was hoping to get there before the authorities had to take hold of the case. He'd used his pull to get them there, to give her a chance to see the evidence and the crime scene before it had been processed and tampered with and closed off. But they'd only have an hour at most.

She sighed, "I'll do my best," she remarked, stepping closer to the body and looking around, she knew she had to be quick.

~8~

John hadn't exactly been thrilled to return to 221B Baker Street and see Sherlock had cracked his password on his laptop. Though he had been rather embarrassed to learn that Sherlock read his blog, he hadn't exactly said the nicest things about the man, though Sherlock seemed indifferent to it. He'd just finished going through the bills and lamenting about the need for a job when Sherlock had leapt up and stated that he had to go to the bank, before striding out of the room, leaving John little option but to go as well, to see what was up.

They made their way into Shad Sanderson, an investment bank, stepping inside to see vast amounts of high-tech rooms and equipment everywhere. There were glass lifts, internal windows, trading floors, with banks of digital world clocks, London's hitting 12pm just as they entered.

"When you said we were going to the bank..." John began as they stepped off a lift, but Sherlock just stepped past him, making his way to an office with purpose.

They stepped up to a door that read 'Sebastian Wilkes, Director of the Trading Floor.'

"Sherlock Holmes!" Sebastian greeted, his floppy hair billowing as he strode over to Sherlock when he appeared in the doorway, shaking his hand.

"Sebastian," Sherlock replied, eyeing the man's suit, his office, his overall appearance.

"How are you, buddy? How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

"This is my friend, John Watson."

Sebastian's eyes widened as he looked at John, " _Friend_?"

"Colleague," John corrected quickly, shaking Sebastian's hand, grimacing at the grip of the man.

"Grab a pew," Sebastian motioned to the chairs before his desk as his personal assistant appeared in the doorway behind them, "Need something?" he asked them, "Coffee? Water? No?" he glanced at his PA, "We're all sorted here, thanks."

"You're doing well," Sherlock commented as they sat, "Spending lots of time abroad."

"Well, some..." Sebastian nodded.

Sherlock eyed him, noting his watch, the type it was, the time it gave, the _wrong_ time, before adding, "Flying all the way round the world. Twice a month!"

Sebastian smiled, "You're doing that thing," he sighed and turned to John, "We were at Uni together, and this guy here, he had this trick he used to do…"

"It's not a _trick_."

Sebastian just ignored him, "He could look at you and tell your whole life story."

"Yes, I've seen him do it," John nodded.

"Put the wind up _everyone._ We _hated_ him. You'd come to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak, he would know who you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed," Sherlock defended.

"Only person who seemed entertained by it was Jackie," Sebastian looked at Sherlock, "How _is_ your girlfriend doing anyway? You marry her yet?"

John nearly choked on air, "Girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend," Sherlock replied.

"Really?" Sebastian scoffed, "The time you two spent together," he muttered before glancing at John, "We had a pool going," John shook his head, still flabbergasted by the notion that Sherlock 'Married to my Work' Holmes even _had_ a female FRIEND. Sebastian just laughed, turning back to Sherlock, "Go on. Enlighten me. 'Two trips a month, flying all round the world.' You're quite right. But how could you tell?" Sherlock moved to speak but Sebastian continued, "Gonna tell 'em there's a stain on my tie, from a type of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "I..."

"Or maybe it's the mud on my shoes..."

"I was chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."

The arrogant smile that had appeared on Sebastian's face faded and he cleared his throat, "I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in," he got up and led them out of the office, across the trading floor, and to a darkened corner office with a glass front, "Sir William's office. The bank's former chairman. His room has been left here, like a sort of memorial..." he flashed a card across the electronic keypad on the door, "Someone broke in here late last night."

"What did they steal?" John asked.

"Nothing. They just left a little message," he flicked on the light to reveal Sir William's office. There was an old leather-top desk, a blotter, pen, lamp, with a gilt-framed oil painting of a grim-faced banker behind the desk, a plaque reading 'Sir William Shad, 1944-2009. Chairman.'

The picture, though, had a thick line across William's eyes in bright yellow aerosol paint, dripping little beads of yellow drops. On the wall below the line was a sort of tag, some illegible scrawl.

Sebastian glanced at Sherlock and John, "There's something else you should see," he nodded them out of the room, leading them back to his own office, and switching on a TV screen on his wall.

Footage popped up, the security reel of the office from last night, a still frame every 60 seconds. He slowed the picture, showing the portrait they'd just seen visible in the darkened office, when suddenly the paint appeared. He froze the picture at 11:34pm, flicking it back to the still just before it, 11:33pm, where there was no paint. And forward again to 11:34, with paint.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian remarked, "So someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left, within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.

"That's where this gets really interesting…" he motioned for them to follow, taking them to the reception desk, booting up a computer program of the security display of the building, "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard. Every toilet."

Sherlock eyed the display, the lines and the recorded times, "That door didn't open last night?"

Sebastian shook his head, "There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a check, John's eyes widening at the amount, but Sherlock seemed unimpressed, "This is only an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need incentives, Sebastian," Sherlock rolled his eyes, breezing past, and heading right for Sir William's office once more.

He pulled out his mobile, snapping pictures of the portrait, the tag on the adjacent wall, moving to hit send, when he froze, shaking his head at himself for forgetting Leena was busy. He sighed, hitting save, he could send her the pictures when her case had closed.

He moved to distract himself, looking around the office, at the desk, the private balcony, five floors up with a straight drop. He moved to the doorway, glancing back at the portrait and then turning to leave, when he noticed something, the desks of the employees had a view of the office…

He looked back at the portrait once more before stepping out onto the trading floor, moving around, dodging and weaving in and out of pillars and cubicles, ignoring the other workers staring at him, as he looked at the graffiti from different angles. He moved into an office nearby, 'Hong Kong Desk Head,' as the walls were glass. He turned, able to see the complete view of the graffiti from there.

He smirked, moving to the door, nicking something off the desk in the process, before heading to the glass lift where John had just walked up, "'Two trips around the world this month,'" John mimicked as they road down it, "You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him," Sherlock smirked, "How did you..."

"Did you look at his watch?" Sherlock asked.

"His watch?"

"The hands on his watch were correct but the date was wrong. It actually said the day before yesterday. He crossed the dateline twice, and didn't alter his watch."

"Within a month? How d'you know that part?"

"New Rolex. Only came out in February," he stepped off the lift as it opened at the bottom, the two of them heading for the exit.

"You think we should sniff around here a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," he turned to stride up the street, John rushing after him, "That graffiti is a message, John. For someone at the bank, working on the trading floor. We find the intended recipient and..."

"He'll to lead us to the person who sent it," John realized.

"Obvious."

"300 people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars."

John frowned, "What?"

"The pillars. And the screens. Very few places where you could see the graffiti. That narrows the field considerably. And of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?"

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some people trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a stolen name sign off the office desk for a Van Coon, "Not many Van Coon's in the phone book," he remarked before hailing a cab.

~8~

"What do you think?" Greg asked, eyeing Jacqueline as she headed for the door of the flat.

"I think we should head out now," she remarked.

Greg frowned, "Why?"

"Someone else is going to notice he hasn't come in to work today," she nodded back at the bedroom, "And who do _you_ think they'll call?"

Greg nodded, "Right," it was only a matter of time and they couldn't risk being seen. He opened the door with a gloved hand and allowed her out, locking the door back up behind them, just the way they'd first found the room, "But what do you think of the case so far?"

"You've got a planner and an enforcer," she replied as they headed down the hall to the stairs, "The person who killed your victim was the enforcer, he's agile, he'd have to be to reach the flat by climbing…"

"He climbed?" Greg's eyes widened.

"There's no other way in, the door to the room was locked, the front door was bolted shut, there was no sign of forced entry or of lock picking. He came through the window. He also didn't want the murder uncovered, which is why he made it _look_ like a suicide. It was clean and not overly done so this wasn't accomplished in a fit of rage but planned out. This was probably an act of revenge or a warning to others…"

"He? The murderer's a man then?"

"Statistically, it's more likely…however the planner's a woman."

Greg shook his head, "How do you figure that one?"

"There was a small origami lotus lodged in the man's throat," she shrugged, having inspected the man with a small penlight, "That's far too delicate and feminine a thing for a man to plant, it was put there as a calling card. Given that it was black, I'd wager the Black Lotus Chinese Cartel, so you'd be dealing with a sort of mob boss here, they'd have plenty of lackeys willing to kill."

"Fantastic," he grumbled, thankful today was his day off so he wouldn't have to deal with it on top of Scotland Yard's favorite sociopath.

"I'd say you're looking for an older woman, poised, short hair…"

"How do you know she has short hair?"

She blinked, "The leader of a mafia? The _last_ thing you want is hair long enough to be pulled from behind and used against you."

Greg shook his head, following her towards the door, "Where to now?"

"Now, we find the bullet Van Coon fired…"

"Isn't it lodged in his skull?"

"His gun had gone off, the gun in his _left_ hand, bullet wound in his _right_ temple. Doesn't make sense, so he fired _at_ the enforcer, but there's no bullet inside the room. Must have flown out the window."

"Yeah…" the man shook his head, feeling just a bit ill, there were _two_ of them, "Must have."

~8~

John watched as the police searched through Eddie Van Coon's flat later that day. He and Sherlock had arrived, Sherlock using the balcony of a lovely woman on the seventh floor to get down to Van Coon's flat to investigate. The flat itself was small, sparse, sterile, with not much in it save a telephone, a phone book, 'A to Z of London,' and a small stone Buddha. There was a fridge full of champagne, a toothbrush and liquid soap dispenser in the bathroom, and, of course, the dead body of Eddie lying in the bedroom with a bullet in his skull.

He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking at his phone, just staring at it a moment before sighing and putting it away, he'd been doing that a lot.

"You think maybe he'd lost a lot of money?" he asked the man, "Suicide rate is pretty high amongst these city types."

"We don't know that it was _suicide_ ," Sherlock countered.

"Come on! His door was locked from the inside. You had to climb across the balcony..."

Sherlock glanced at the dead man's suitcase, stuffed with underwear and socks, a hole in the middle, something cylindrical that had been packed in there, "Been away. Three days, judging by the laundry. Look, something was packed tightly inside this case."

"Thanks," John rolled his eyes, "I'll take your word for it."

"What's the matter?" Sherlock looked at him.

"I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."

Sherlock shrugged and looked over at the corpse, "Those symbols at the bank, that graffiti. Why was it put there?"

"You think it was some sort of code?"

"Obviously. But I'm saying why paint it? Why not use email if you want to make contact? Or the phone?"

John paused, thinking, "Maybe he wasn't answering..."

"Good," Sherlock smirked, "You follow."

"No."

"What sort of message would everyone try to avoid?" Sherlock asked as he glanced inside the man's mouth, frowning when he spotted something. He pulled on a pair of gloves and delicately poked inside, "What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at."

"Bills?"

"Yes. He was being threatened."

"Not by the gas board."

Sherlock pulled out a small ball of black paper, moist from saliva, shaped in the form of a flower. He opened it, but it was blank. He glanced over as a different inspector entered, had to have been fresh on the force, new, young, "Ah, Sergeant...we haven't met."

"I know who you are," the man replied unenthusiastically, "And I'd prefer it if you _didn't_ tamper with any of the evidence."

Sherlock put the soggy ball into an evidence bag and handed it over, "I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way..."

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's _Detective Inspector_. Dimmock," he swept out of the room again, Sherlock and John following him into the lounge, "We're obviously looking at a suicide."

"It _does_ seem the only explanation of the facts," John nodded.

"Wrong," Sherlock scoffed, "It's _one_ _possible_ explanation of _some_ of the facts. You've got a solution that you like...but you're just choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock raised an eyebrow.

"The wound is on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed," he mimed shooting himself in the right temple with his left hand awkwardly, "Requires a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?"

"I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat..." he gestured around at the various items that proved his theory, "...tea stains from the bottom of mugs, where he's been resting them on the arm of that chair. The _left_ arm. Pad and paper on the _left_ side of his phone, means he could hold it in his right hand and take messages with his left. All his expensive, favorite suits on the _left_ side of his wardrobe, because he'd open the left-hand door..." he glanced at Dimmock, "Want me to go on?"

"Er, no," John answered, seeing Dimmock's irritated expression, "I think you've covered it."

"I might as well actually. There's only one left on the list. The butter knife on the kitchen surface has butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. Unlikely that a _left_ -handed man would shoot himself in the _right_ side of the head. Conclusion…someone broke in and murdered him. Only explanation of _all_ of the facts."

"But the gun..." Dimmock began, motioning to the gun in Van Coon's hand.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened."

"What?"

"Today at the bank," John nodded, "A sort of a warning."

"He fired when his attacker came in," Sherlock deduced.

"And the bullet..." Dimmock shook his head.

"Went out the window."

"Oh, come on! What are the chances of _that_?"

"Wait for the pathologist's report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee."

"But if his door was locked from the inside...how did the killer get in?"

"Good," Sherlock smirked, "You're finally asking the right questions," before walking off, not bothering to answer.

~8~

"I still can't believe it," Greg shook his head as he and Jacqueline sat in a restaurant, by the corner of the bar, casually eyeing the door, waiting.

"It was simple physics," Jacqueline replied.

" _Simple_?" he gaped.

She shrugged, "I had a friend help out. He's brilliant at physics. I just gave him the height of the building, the make of the gun, and the wind speed and direction at that hour…it didn't take much to figure out the trajectory and distance the bullet would travel."

"You found it under the benches of the park across the street!"

"Physics," she muttered, before smacking his arm to quiet him, her eyes on the door as it opened.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entered the restaurant, walking straight over to a table that was laughing loudly, Sebastian sitting with his clients.

"It was a threat," Sherlock stated bluntly, "That's what the graffiti meant."

The table fell silent as Sebastian shifted uncomfortably, "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

Sherlock just sat down, helping himself to someone's glass of water, "I don't think this can wait, Seb. Sorry. One of your traders, someone in your office, was killed."

"What?!"

"Van Coon," John replied, "The police are at his flat."

" _Killed_?"

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock muttered, taking a nibble of the food, "Still want me to make an appointment?" he smirked, "Ok. Would maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

Sebastian fell silent a moment before getting up and motioning Sherlock and John to follow after.

As soon as they passed, Greg turned to Jacqueline, "Care to explain how the great Sherlock Holmes missed _us_ sitting here?"

She smirked, "He only deduces when he's _actively_ _looking_. He's not expecting us here, he wouldn't notice us," she laughed at Greg's dumbstruck expression as she took a sip of her wine.

He shook his head, "I've spent _five years_ with the man and _I_ didn't notice that."

She clinked her glass to his, "I've got you beat by at least 15," she answered, if more than 20 years wasn't long enough to know how Sherlock operated, no one ever would.

~8~

John was almost certain that Sherlock was in a bad mood later that day.

They'd spoken with Sebastian in the toilet, told him it was a murder but he hadn't believed them. He'd told them a little more on Van Coon, but then got a text that the police deemed it a suicide, which John knew must have irritated Sherlock as he'd expressly told them _and_ proved it was a _murder_. Then there had been an article in the paper the next day about another man's death. This man had died nearly the same way, shot dead, in his apartment, the doors locked, windows bolted from the inside.

Which explained why they were both back in Scotland Yard, standing before Dimmock.

Sherlock flipped through his phone, about to send a text, when he grumbled under his breath, he supposed he'd have to look it up himself. He sighed, cancelling the text/question and opening the Times online webpage, bringing up the story.

"Brian Lukis," he stated, "Journalist. Freelance. Murdered in his flat. The door locked from the inside."

"You've got admit, it's similar," John remarked, "Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls!"

"Inspector?" Sherlock called, seeing the man glancing at the other officers, who were smirking at him and gossiping about this, "Do you _seriously_ believe that Eddie Van Coon was _just_ another city suicide?" Dimmock was silent, "You checked with ballistics, I suppose?" he nodded, "And? The shot that killed him wasn't from his own gun."

"No," Dimmock sighed, "The bullet was found in a park."

Sherlock smirked, "So. This investigation might move a bit quicker if you took my word as gospel."

"He makes everyone feel like that," John added when Dimmock looked over at him, stunned at Sherlock's arrogance.

"I've just handed you a murder inquiry," Sherlock continued, "We might have a serial killer. Five minutes in that flat."

Dimmock sighed and nodded.

~8~

"And this one?" Greg asked, watching Jacqueline walk around the room of a Mr. Lukis's flat, having gone there as soon as they saw the story in the papers.

She paused, eyeing the books lying around, she'd always had an affinity with books. These were mostly travel books, about south east Asia, 'A to Z of London' tucked in with them. She glanced up at the skylight, "Well, the enforcer is certainly a climber," she glanced at Greg, "I'd wager the skylight is unlocked."

Greg frowned and grabbed a broom, poking at it, making it move just a bit, unlocked, "Yeah."

She nodded, "It's how he broke into the other flat, climbed the balcony."

"And that tells you something about the killer?"

"He's agile. Probably lean, tall, flexible. He's strong too, has to be to be able to climb as high as he can. I'd say he has a background in acrobatics or some such area. Probably also has short hair, can't have it get caught in anything on the way up. And, given the Black Lotus there," she pointed to the floor where another small black origami lotus was sitting, "I'd say Chinese as well."

Greg blinked, "That's incredible."

She smirked, "We should leave though," she added, glancing at her watch, "We need to get to West Kensington Library before the others."

"Sorry, the library?"

She stepped down the stairs towards the front door, pausing to pick up a book on one of the small piles stacked up and down the steps, opening it for him to see it had the Kensington Library crest on it, "He took this out the day he died."

"Right, right…and we have to leave _now_ , why?"

"Because he'll be on his way soon, this one was in the headlines."

Greg frowned, about to ask what she was talking about, when he got a phone call. He picked up his mobile, "Yeah?" he called, listening to the message, "Yeah, it's fine, we're wrapping up now," he snapped the phone shut and shook his head at her, "That was Dimmock. How could you _possibly_ know he was on his way?"

She laughed, heading out with him, "More than _twenty years_ with Sherlock Holmes," she shook her head, "If _anyone_ can predict his moves, it's _me_."

~8~

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the flat of Brian Lukis, moving past the police tape on the stairs and doors to look around. It was dusty, dirty, chaotic, with mountains of books on the stairs in piles. As he moved into the room at the top of the stairs he noticed a small black paper ball on the floor, an open suitcase, empty but unzipped, clearly recently used. He walked past the desk, littered with papers, and over to a window, looking out.

"Fourth floor," he remarked to John and Dimmock as they followed him, "That's why they think they're safe. Put the chain on the door, bolt it shut. They think they're impregnable," he tried the windows, but they were bolted shut, and then his gaze drifted to the skylight, "They never consider for a moment, there's another way in here."

"I don't understand," Dimmock shook his head, watching as Sherlock grabbed a broom and climbed on a chair, "What are you doing?"

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb."

"What?!"

"He can cling to walls like an insect. That's how he gets in," he lifted the broom and nudged the skylight, it was open, "He climbed up the side of this building, ran across the roof, and dropped in through the skylight."

"You're not serious?"

"Scaled a sixth floor balcony in Docklands to kill Van Coon," Sherlock continued, ignoring him.

"Hold on..."

"Of course he got into the bank the same way...across the window ledge and onto the terrace," he jumped down from the chair, "We have to find out what connects these two men," he moved to the stairs, eyeing the books, seeing one that seemed new. He reached down and picked it up, seeing the crest for West Kensington Library, stamped for the very day the man had died.

~8~

"How were they able to vandalize a library?" Greg shook his head as they headed down the steps of the library. They'd gone in and found the shelf that the book had been labeled from, Jacqueline having memorized the index number for it. Pulling the books off the shelf had revealed a yellow graffiti behind the books, a line with a squiggled tag next to it.

"You'd be surprised," Jacqueline sighed, "People can be surprisingly resourceful when they want to be."

"Please say that mark tells you something."

She laughed, "It tells quite a lot, actually," he looked at her, "The mark was planted by the planner. She had the enforcer, or possibly one of her lackeys, place it there. She knew that Lukis was writing an article about South East Asia, so she _knew_ that he'd be taking out books there, in that particular section, and to leave the mark there for him. Whatever it means, I'd doubt it's good. But that's beside the point, the point is that the enforcer is _meticulous_. She observes her victims, follows them, learns their patterns and habits to a T before making a move. She's well practiced and precise. She'd also be able to blend in, otherwise someone would have noticed her."

"Great," he grumbled, just what they needed, a clever _and_ invisible killer.

"She likes to instill fear in her victims first, this means she likes control. Being the head of the mob, she's used to being in a position of power. Should she have a job outside that, she would mirror her position in the mob as well. You need to find someone who's Chinese, either the head of a booming business, or the manager of a five star restaurant, or the lead in some sort of performance. I'd go with the performance, this sort of narcissism, this craving for power, means she wants to be recognized in the moment but forgotten elsewhere. The fact that she's so precise means she's used to being in a situation where everything _must_ happen at the _right_ moment, timed out perfectly, like a choreographed dance. I'd definitely say she's a performer as well, like the enforcer…" she paused in thought and looked at Greg, "Are there any Chinese festivals or shows in the area?"

He frowned, "Not that I know of…"

He was cut off suddenly by Jacqueline pulling him to the side, into a row of books.

"What was _that_ for?" he hissed, assuming she'd want him quiet.

She put a finger to her lips, grinning as she nodded to the side. He looked over, shaking his head, when he saw Sherlock and John heading for the stairs, clearly there to find the same books she had noticed before.

"Well done," she murmured, knowing he didn't typically notice books.

~8~

Sherlock was walking through Trafalgar Square with John the next day. They had discovered the same tag that had been painted to scare Van Coon behind the South East Asia books in the library. Now they _knew_ that someone was _also_ after Lukis, but that there had to be some sort of connection between the two men. Upon looking at the two photos, now taped to the mirror of their flat, they'd spent hours trying to work out what was going on. Both messages had been posted in places where the victims would surely see it, then, only hours later, both men, spooked, locked themselves in their homes and were killed. They had to find out what the message meant. If they could find out who had painted the messages, then they would find that out.

"The world runs on codes and ciphers, John," Sherlock was explaining as he led John on, "That million pound security system at the bank...the pin machine you took exception to...cryptography inhabits our every waking moment..."

"Yes," John nodded, following, "Ok. But..."

"But it's all computer generated. Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods…" he glanced at his phone, starting to get irritated, if he could just text Leena she could have her contact hack into the system like she'd had the woman hack into John's laptop to leave the note about Roland-Kerr, see if there might be _something_ , but she hadn't texted back yet so he couldn't bother her now, "This is different, it's an _ancient_ device. Modern code-breaking methods can't unravel it."

"Where we headed?"

"I need some advice," he sighed, putting his phone away.

Leena would know what the symbols were, or at least an idea of the language it was in. She'd always been better at the written word than he had been, him being better at the details and science.

"What? Sorry?"

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

John grinned, " _You_ need _advice_."

"On painting. Yes. I need to talk to an expert," he led John towards the National Gallery, but turned to cut down a dark alley beside it, confusing John.

"Where...where are you going?" John asked, before dashing after him, "Sherlock!"

Neither of them noticed the man and woman sitting before the fountain, watching them.

"He's gone to see Raz," Jacqueline remarked, watching Sherlock disappear behind the alley, "Probably to ask about the paint and the artist."

Greg frowned, "Shouldn't we go see him too then?"

She shook her head, "He's trying to find the message's _meaning_. We know it's a threat given how frantic Lukis and Van Coon were after receiving them. It's my opinion that it doesn't really matter what it says, the meaning is clear, reading between the lines so to speak," she glanced at Greg, "Besides, my job here is to profile your killer, not explain the crime. That's Sherlock's area of expertise."

~8~

Sherlock sat in 221B Baker Street, a collage of information about the case before him, stuck to the mirror, while he searched the internet, looking up language systems and archaic symbols. He searched _everything_ , hieroglyphics, the Greek alphabet, Hebrew and Arabic letters, Chinese words…but there was no match for the yellow squiggles. He'd been tempted to text Leena, literature had been one of her majors in Uni, she had been the one to study the classics and poetry, she would know. She'd made a few friends in the course of her career, one was as big a literary fan as she was, but he read in quite a few languages, he might recognize something as well.

But he couldn't text her till she contacted him first.

So, instead, he sat on the sofa, his nose in a book of runes, "You've been a while," he commented, not even looking up when John entered hours later.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is..." John grumbled, irritated, "Custody Sergeants don't like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Finger prints, a charge sheet. And I'll have to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday..."

They'd found Raz vandalizing a wall and, when the officers had found them minutes later on their rounds, they'd only seen _him_ standing there, a can of paint in his hand, with Sherlock and Raz gone. So, naturally, they assumed that HE had been the one to paint the wall.

"What?" Sherlock asked, not very interested, glancing at his phone.

"Me, Sherlock. In court, on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO. Criminal damage."

"Good," he nodded, still distracted by his phone, willing it to ping, "Fine."

"You want to tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up, anytime..."

"This symbol," he sighed, looking away from the phone and getting up, "I _still_ can't place it. I want you to go to the police station. Ask about the journalist..." he moved to John's side, pulling the man's jacket back up from where he'd been trying to take it off, "All his personal effects will be impounded. Get hold of a diary, or something that will tell us his movements..." and pushed him out the door, heading down the stairs with him, grabbing his own coat on the way.

They stepped out onto the street, "I'll go and see Van Coon's PA..." Sherlock told John, looking down the street, "If we can retrace their steps, somewhere they're going to coincide," with that, he ran off down the street, leaving John alone.

John sighed, resigning himself, before hailing a cab.

Just as it pulled up, he noticed someone across the street, watching him get into the cab. He frowned, seeing an older Chinese woman with short hair taking a picture of him with her phone. But, before he could get a better look, the cab pulled away.

"You saw her yes?" Jacqueline asked as she and Greg walked down Baker Street, glancing at the Chinese woman walking off in the opposite direction on the other side of the street.

"Yes," he nodded, "Is she the planner then?"

"Hard to say," she sighed, "She fits the profile, she's clearly watching John and Sherlock…but we'll have to wait, we can't risk taking her in and having her only be an accomplice. It would alert the planner that we know about her."

Greg sighed, "Where to next then?"

"China Town obviously," she rolled her eyes, nudging him, "The Black Lotus, the Chinese woman, the symbols must be Chinese as well. Someone there must have them displayed or know about them. We determine what the sort of symbols they are, it can only add to the profile. Is the symbol an actual threat, or a coded message?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've got someone new here. But is she Sherlock's Leena? Who exactly is Greg? Why are he and Jacqueline investigating these crimes? What test case? For what? Is it really possible to predict Sherlock? And what's this, Sebastian thought Sherlock was dating someone? Who's Jackie? And what was 'Operation Maid Marian' all about? Has it commenced? Oh boy, so many questions. A few answers have probably already worked themselves out in your minds, even more so after this chapter. I've given nothing concrete though, but quite a few questions will be answered...
> 
> Also, the person I picture Jacqueline to look something like is Brianna Brown...ironic. That's all I'm saying till we find out what minor crossover this will be with :)


	4. The Blind Banker: An Ancient Antiquity

Sherlock had gone to see Van Coon's assistant, Amanda, a blonde woman, hair held back by a green pin. She was clearly more than an assistant given the fact that he'd seen the same hand soap she used back in Van Coon's flat. But he didn't comment on it. They had gone through the man's receipts of very expensive restaurants and bar bills, before finding out that he'd flown back from Dalian on Friday, gone to a few meetings. The day he died, he had taken a cab from his home, mid-morning, to the West End, then took the tube back to the office, clearly having transported something heavy on the first trip. At some point, he'd stopped at a sandwich shop on Shaftesbury Avenue.

So, he'd made his way to the shop out in Chinatown, and ended up running into John there. Apparently John had gotten Lukis's journal from Dimmock, followed the man's last footsteps as well. They'd discovered that Lukis had also spent time in Dalian and come to the same area as Van Coon, to a little shop, the Lucky Cat, on the same street.

They stepped into the shop, Sherlock pausing in the doorway a moment as a scent wafted over to him. He frowned, sniffing again, but the scent was gone, the incense burning behind the counter where an old Chinese woman in dark glasses was sitting. He crinkled his nose and shook his head, he'd almost _sworn_ that the first scent had been roses and apples, a very distinct scent that he only associated with _one_ person, but she was most certainly not in England or anywhere in Europe.

He must have been imagining it.

He shook his head and stepped further into the tiny, dingy, dirty store, eyeing the ceramic figures on display, the paper lanterns, the fans, all covered in a small layer of dust, no one had bought anything there in ages. He paused by a series of medallions, Chinese symbols lying on soft cushions, frowning when he saw that there was a small indent in the dust, one of the necklaces had recently been sold it seemed.

Shocking.

He turned back to the Buddhas, the geisha statues, the classical warriors, the cheap stoneware, an altar…and the cats. The Chinese cats waving their paws, _everywhere_!

"You want Lucky Cat?" the owner called over to John as he stared at them.

"Er, no thanks," John turned around, "No."

"Ten pound," she lifted one, "Ten pound. I think your wife she will like."

John and Sherlock froze when they saw something on the underside of the cat, a squiggle.

"Sherlock, look..." John gaped, "On the label there..."

"I see it," he nodded, now staring at the prices of the trinkets.

"The symbol. Look. It's exactly the same as the cipher..."

Sherlock nodded and stepped out of the shop, looking around at the buildings and stalls around them, till he spotted a stand with the same symbols, a grocers, the squiggles with the English numbers under them.

"It's an ancient _number_ system," Sherlock realized, "Hang Zhou. These days only street traders use it," he squinted at the price tags of the grocers, "They were _numbers_! Written on the wall at the bank and at the library! Numbers in an ancient Chinese dialect!"

"It's a '15,'" John pointed, "Look. Just here! What we thought was the artist's tag, it's a number '15.'"

"And the blindfold. The horizontal line," Sherlock thought on the slash across the portrait's eyes, "It's a number as well. It's the Chinese number '1,' John!"

"We've found it!" John cheered.

The grocer, who was rather irritated that they had been snatching up his labels, grabbed them back.

John laughed, looking over, his smile fading when he spotted the same Chinese woman, black sunglasses, black scarf, black coat, taking a picture of him again. But when he looked back, she was gone, blended into the crowd.

~8~

"…how did you know that they'd go in the Lucky Cat?" Greg asked, frowning as he eyed Jacqueline, eating some food out of a little carton with chopsticks. They'd been walking around, looking at the shops, keeping an eye out for Sherlock and John, when she'd gone into a shop, only to pull him into an alley when she'd stepped out, spotting Sherlock and John making their way towards the shop.

"No idea," she smiled, "I just thought the cats were cute."

Greg shook his head, "So we came here for nothing then?"

She rolled her eyes, "You saw Sherlock and John by the grocers," she commented, swallowing, "The symbol is a number. Therefore the message is in _code_. That's intricate, that's clever, and that means that the planner keeps her cards close to her chest. Only those in her little gang can read the symbols for their meanings. That means she keeps a close eye on her workers, she knows who knows the code, she knows their lives. She's controlling. That performance aspect, make her the star, the narrator."

Greg seemed skeptical, but nodded anyway.

"She made threats to both Lukis and Van Coon because they were partners. They both traveled to China recently, I'd guess the Lucky Cat over there is the drop off location for them. But one of them didn't bring everything. When you're not sure who, you go for both. She'd rather act fast than wait, meaning she's used to high pressure situations, reacting before questioning."

"Right so…what else should we look for around here?"

"Nothing," she remarked, "Nothing else here would tell me more about the planner. Sherlock will probably find out more about the crime though."

He nodded, turning to lead her off, casting a glance back at Sherlock and John as they sat in a café, Sherlock eyeing the flat above the Lucky Cat with narrowed eyes.

~8~

Sherlock stepped outside the Antiquities Museum later that day. He'd noticed that the paper outside the flat above the Lucky Cat hadn't been taken in, it was wet. He'd been tempted to text Leena, see how long ago it had been since it rained, but refrained. Instead he'd checked himself, seeing that it had been three days ago, yet the paper was still there. They'd gone to the flat of one Soo Lin Yao, him sneaking in the back window as John waited at the door. He'd looked around the flat, realizing that Soo Lin had left in quite a hurry, food in the fridge going sour, clothes still damp in the wash, dishes left dirty in the sink. Quite a sudden move. He'd wondered what was going on, till he noticed a puddle on the floor from where he'd knocked over a vase, only to realize that the vase hadn't been full when HE knocked it over.

Someone else already had.

He'd searched for the mystery man, the acrobat who had killed Van Coon and Lukis, and been attacked by him, nearly strangled by pieces of clothes. John had shouted something at the door, something about his ego, when the attacker quickly left, leaving him a small origami black lotus in his pocket. He'd quickly deduced that Soo Lin was the next to be attacked and that they needed to find her. He'd spotted a note left by a museum coworker of hers, worried about her, and headed to the museum to find out more about the woman, for clearly she was _well_ aware of the danger and far more adept at avoiding it than Van Coon or Lukis, meaning she had previous experience with the inner workings of the group after her.

They'd met up with a man named Andy, who had explained that Soo Lin worked at the museum, giving demonstrations on a tea ceremony, pointing out a small set of three teapots in a display, one shining. Andy had taken them to a storeroom, showing them a Chinese cabinet, but that wasn't what Sherlock noticed, it was that a Greek statue had the same Chinese symbols in yellow paint on it. Andy explained how he was worried about Soo Lin, and it seemed he had right to be, the staff claimed that she resigned suddenly, which she did, but not to leave, to hide.

They had stepped out of the museum that night, only to run into Raz, who had found another yellow mark by the South Bank, under the Hayward Gallery. There had been massive amounts of graffiti on the walls, but there was one yellow mark that stuck out. Sherlock snapped a picture of it, automatically readying it to be a picture message before nearly smacking himself.

He really was becoming too dependent on Leena's input for his own good.

He'd grumbled to himself about it before telling John to try and find more paint up the railway line while he went to investigate the area, only finding an empty yellow aerosol can and a poster for a Chinese circus performance.

John had much better luck finding the paint. A whole wall of the markings, eighteen yellow symbols grouped in nine pairs. It had been painted over by the time John had come to find him and led him back, but he'd managed to take a picture of it on his own phone beforehand.

Smart.

And now they were back in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock staring at the mirror that morning, the new symbols stuck with the other bits of evidence he'd collected. He'd written out the numbers beneath the characters, just needing to crack the code to finish the translation.

"Always in pairs, John," Sherlock muttered, "Look."

John's head bobbed up from where he was napping at the desk, "Mmm?"

"Every number comes with a partner..."

"God, I need to sleep."

"Why paint it next to the tracks?"

"No idea…"

"Thousands of people pass by there every day..."

"Just twenty minutes..."

"Of course! He wants information. He's contacting all his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back. And it's somewhere here, in code. We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao!"

He turned and strode past John, pulling him out of the chair, startling him, as he led the drowsy man out the door. They had to get to the museum, quick.

~8~

"Hello Mrs. Hudson!" Jacqueline greeted as soon as the door to 221 Baker Street was opened.

"Oh my goodness!" Mrs. Hudson beamed, hugging the girl before her tightly before pulling away with a frown on her face, "Have you been eating dear? You're far too skinny!"

Jacqueline laughed, "I've actually just come from lunch with Greg," she gestured over her shoulder where the man waved.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "You got my message then?"

She nodded as well, "Yes, thanks for letting us know when Sherlock and John left."

"I don't know when they'll be back," Mrs. Hudson warned as she ushered them into the flat.

"Don't worry Mrs. Hudson," she waved off the woman's concern, "We'll be done in the time it takes to take a cab there and back."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and stepped into the kitchen, fully intent on making some sandwiches for the two, as they headed up the stairs to 221B.

"Why did we have to come here, again?" Greg asked, following her into the flat and over to the mirror where all the evidence was stuck up.

She smiled, noting that Yorrick the skull was still there, and pulled out her phone, snapping a picture of Sherlock's collage, "I need all the evidence to make a complete profile," she remarked, stepping closer to look at the new symbols, humming to herself.

"What?"

"Public area," she murmured, "She's getting desperate now."

"That's bad."

"Very bad," she nodded, stepping back from the collage, patting the skull that sat on the mantel quickly, "It means she's about to escalate her killings. She wants what was taken, _badly_ , and she wants it _now_. She's calling in the troops and they're going to be gunning for _anyone_ who _might_ know where it is. Whatever she's planning, she's going to do it soon."

Greg frowned, "She's going after Sherlock, isn't she?"

"Yeah," she sighed, "And Sherlock won't even know it's coming."

He frowned, "Why wouldn't he?"

She pointed to a scrap of his notes on the mirror, his thoughts, tapping it, "He thinks it's a 'he,'" she remarked, "He won't be expecting a woman."

Greg nodded, looking around, "Need anything else?"

She shook her head and headed for the door. She'd learned her lesson in the Lucky Cat, not to stay too long. The smell of her perfume and shampoo had lingered in the shop, overcome quickly by the incense but out of place enough for Sherlock to have noticed it first. She glanced at the windows, seeing them open a crack, just enough where her scent would filter out before Sherlock arrived.

She couldn't risk him knowing she was back. Not just yet.

~8~

It had not been a good night for Sherlock Holmes.

Not at all.

He and John had gone to the museum to speak with Andy again, only to notice that the three teapots that had been in a display the day before, now _two_ of them were shining when only _one_ had been previously. Checking the log of museum activity for Soo Lin, the only one who had known how to handle the pots, had revealed she hadn't come back to the museum, he'd deduced that she hadn't come _back_ , because she'd never _left_.

They'd hidden in the museum that night, just outside the restoration room, only to discover Soo Lin had been breaking in to work on the teapots. He'd entered the restoration room, seeing Soo Lin there, and discovered that she did, in fact, know about the yellow symbols popping up. She'd been clever, avoided those after her, and found out that the man after her, the one who had murdered Van Coon and Lukis, was her brother, Zhi Zhu, 'the spider.' She'd shown them a tattoo on her heel, a black lotus flower in a circle, a mark of the Tong, an ancient crime syndicate based in China, otherwise known as the Black Lotus.

Soo Lin told them of how she became a smuggler for them, her and her brother, how her brother had tracked her down, wanting her help in finding a stolen object. She'd refused to help so he'd come after her as punishment, not caring she was his sister. He'd become a full-fledged member of the Black Lotus, working for their boss, Shan. She'd explained the code, the ciphers, that they were used from a book, but before she could say which book, the lights cut out.

Zhi Zhu had found her.

He and John had rushed to protect her, him going to investigate, John meant to stay behind and guard her. But when gunshots had gone off, other members of the Black Lotus firing at him, John had come to help, leaving Soo Lin unprotected.

She'd been killed.

And so had any chance of them cracking the cipher.

They had been taken to Scotland Yard after reporting the murder, only to face down Dimmock _again_ , the man refusing to believe that Soo Lin's death had been connected to Van Coon's or Lukis's. John had been enraged, grumbling about how the girl had died and it was the polices' job to find the man responsible.

He'd simply stopped John's rant, slipping his phone back into his pocket, he was always tempted to text Leena after surviving a dangerous situation, some part of him, a part that, try as he might, he just _couldn't_ silence, believing that she was in danger too and wanting to check on her. They had been _so_ close for _so_ many years that the last few, existing without her, he _still_ couldn't get used to her not being there beside him, facing down the same dangers as him. He needed the distraction so he wouldn't start to…worry…and explained the Black Lotus gang to Dimmock, ready and able to prove that the gang existed and that Lukis and Van Coon were members.

Which was how they ended up at St. Bart's, looking for Molly Hooper in the canteen that same night. They'd found her and asked to see the bodies of the two men, she'd dithered about it, knowing she _should_ say no. So he'd employed a tactic Leena had once mentioned. While in University she'd told him that quite a few women, who had taken an interest in his distant 'hard-to-get' manner, could be swayed by a simple compliment and a smile from him. Upon testing the theory, he'd discovered that playing upon people's attractions really _did_ open quite a few doors. So he'd simply complimented Molly's hair, given her a smile, and the next thing he knew she was leading them into the mortuary and showing them the bodies. Both of which had a black lotus tattooed on their foot. Thus proving his theory.

By then Dimmock was willing to give them whatever they needed to catch their murderer. So, he'd requested their books…which had, admittedly, confused everyone but him, but really, when were others who _weren't_ him _not_ confused?

While the books were being gathered up, he and John had returned to 221B Baker Street to wait, another piece of the puzzle becoming uncovered in the process. He'd deduced that the reason Zhi Zhu had gone to his sister in the first place had been the fact that she worked in a museum, dealing in ancient antiquities. After that, it was a reasonable leap to guess that the Black Lotus was selling these antiquities by means of the black market. So they'd checked the museum website and an auctioneer's site, cross referencing the museum pieces and others from China brought in by anonymous sources, such as two vases, seeming to match the impression that had been in Van Coon's suitcase, both vases arriving around the time that Van Coon and Lukis came back from China. In fact, almost every anonymous contribution had been made around the time either man returned from China, leaving them to believe that one of them must have stolen an artifact for himself.

And then the books arrived.

The police entered, piling mounds and boxes of books everywhere, some labeled 'Van Coon' others 'Lukis.' Sherlock and John just eyed them as they were deposited.

"So…" Sherlock began, "The numbers, they're references."

"To books?" John looked at him.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages."

"Right. So...15 and 1...that means..."

"You turn to page fifteen and it's the first word that you read."

"Ok," he nodded, "So? What's the message?"

"Depends on the book. It would never be the same book twice," he smirked, "That's the cunning of a book code," he mumbled, as though drifting in thought, which he admittedly was. He and Leena had adapted every sort of code known to man in their youth. Language, symbols, books, numbers, whenever Mycroft would crack their code they'd already have another in place, only _one_ code Mycroft had never managed to crack. Leena especially loved the book codes. He sighed, if he could just _contact_ her about this…he shook his head and glanced at the piles, "It's got to be something they _both_ own."

"Ok, fine. Well this shouldn't take too long, should it?" John walked over to the books, trying to look between the boxes, making a list of them, when Dimmock entered, carrying a stack of papers in an evidence bag.

"We found these," Dimmock placed the papers down, "At the museum. Is this your writing?" he held one up to Sherlock, the picture of the ciphers they'd asked Soo Lin for help with but he waved the man off.

"We hoped maybe she could decipher it," John commented, glancing over.

Sherlock just grabbed the bundle of evidence and put it on his desk, moving to help John.

Dimmock hovered a moment, "Anything else I can do?" no one said anything, "To assist you, I mean?"

"Some silence would be marvelous," Sherlock commented, not even looking up.

Dimmock sighed and headed out, leaving the men to their work. John picked up identical books and handed them to Sherlock to check. He glanced at the fifteenth page of a thriller, but saw that the first word, 'is,' was rubbish.

It continued on and on, two of the same books, but words that made no significant connection popping out.

"The thing about a book code," Sherlock sighed, tossing another pair aside, "It has to be a book that all of the gang members own. And one that they all have access to..."

"Can't run around town with the works of Shakespeare in your pocket," John remarked.

"YOU can't," Sherlock remarked quietly, he knew someone who did. He'd gotten her the little pocket sized collection of the man's works for Christmas once and he knew that she still carried it around to this day. Shakespeare was her second favorite.

He frowned as an alarm rang in the background, it was daylight now, time to start the day, but he'd been too focused on the books to notice. He looked at his bookshelf, his own collection of worthwhile books and went over to it, pulling out the Bible, the OED, Dan Brown, Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver…all without any results.

He sighed, rubbing his head, what he wouldn't give for Leena's input in this area.

~8~

Greg handed Jacqueline a cup of tea as he got back into the black car parked outside 221 Baker Street, he glanced at the building and back at her as she smiled thankfully and sipped her tea, looking back at the list of books that Dimmock had handed them when he'd left the flat. The police had catalogued all the books, made a list _before_ they brought the boxes over, but they hadn't told Sherlock or John that, let the men sort themselves.

"So," he glanced at the list, "Which book is it do you think?"

She blinked and looked at him, "'A to Z of London.'"

He eyed her, "You sure?"

She shrugged, "It's the only book on this list they both owned, the only book you could hold in your hand on a crowded London street that no one would notice. They'd think you were a tourist."

He smirked, "I thought your job was to profile the criminal, not help solve the crime."

She laughed, "It is, I just love books."

He glanced back at the flat, "How long before Sherlock figures it out?"

She frowned, squinting as she thought, "Knowing him…sometime tonight," she paused, "He'll be getting frustrated that he hasn't worked it out by now and go on a walk about to think…probably to that circus."

Greg choked on his drink, unable to imagine _Sherlock Holmes_ at a _circus_ , "What circus?"

She rolled her eyes, "Remember, I asked if there were any Chinese performances in town?" he nodded, so she held up her phone, "I did a search, there's only _one_ , 'The Yellow Dragon Circus.' Tonight's its _last_ night."

"And you think the planner and enforcer will be there?"

She smiled, "Only one way to find out."

~8~

John was _not_ a happy camper.

Not by a long shot.

He had taken Sarah, a doctor at the hospital, on a date to a Chinese circus Sherlock had recommended, even agreeing to let the man call in and order tickets. _Three_ of them, he later learned. So now, he was on a date with Sarah…while Sherlock lingered behind them, his date officially crashed.

Apparently, Sherlock believed the circus was also connected to the deaths as it fit in with the Tong assassins. He hadn't believed Sherlock, circus people attacking members of a gang? Sherlock had just explained that the killer was able to climb, shimmy up a rope, was too dexterous, and would need an exit visa in China…a circus person.

Sherlock hadn't understood what the date was about or his intentions with Sarah enough to leave them alone. So they'd all ended up in the auditorium of a theater, standing around as there were no seats, around a ring of candles with a tall tripod covered with a black cloth in the middle. A female performer, dressed in the style and makeup of the Chinese opera had begun the show to a familiar drumbeat, the one they'd heard in the museum when Soo Lin was killed.

Sherlock just hadn't been able to help himself in explaining the way the show and the death defying acts were done. The tripod was a crossbow triggered by weights. The woman loaded the crossbow and dropped a feather on it, showing them its delicacy as it fired at a wooden cut out. Then a man was brought on stage, a masked warrior in black, and was tied with a thick cord, an escapology act. The opera singer attached a cut sandbag that dangled from a rope, slowly releasing the sand, allowing a weight to fall slowly closer to the crossbow's trigger, ready to fire at the man who struggled to get out and, as always, managed to at the last moment.

When John had turned to see if Sherlock was impressed, doubting it though, Sherlock had already disappeared backstage, looking for evidence as another man performed with rope climbing, entertaining the crowd. And Sherlock had found it, a can of yellow aerosol spray…and then been attacked by a masked man with a sword. He'd managed to spray the paint in the man's eyes, ending up crashing through a door and onto the auditorium stage, creating mass panic when John moved to help him…only for Sarah to save the day by smacking the attacker in the head with a wooden plank. He'd pulled the man's shoe off to see the tattoo there as well…

The three of them ran off when the man started to stagger up again.

~8~

"Well…that was…interesting…" Greg remarked as he and Jacqueline stood down the street from the theater, leaning against the black car, watching the people rushing out, Sherlock, John, and Sarah last.

"That's a date with Sherlock Holmes," she smiled softly, sounding as though she had quite a bit of experience there, before sighing, "So, you've seen her then."

"What, the opera singer?"

She nodded, "The planner, in all her glory."

He frowned, "How can you tell?"

"She was the only woman there, she was in control, she was using fear to entertain the crowd, she had short hair, she's older, and she was far too calm when Sherlock burst through onto the stage. When it happened, two of the other men stepped closer to her, to guard her, she…"

"I get it," Greg cut in, holding up a hand, "What do we do now?"

"Find out where she's hiding."

~8~

Sherlock was in a foul mood when they returned to 221B Baker Street. They'd gone to the police after the attack in the theater and gotten a raiding party sent down there, only to come up with nothing. Dimmock now refused to help them as he had nothing to go on but Sherlock's word, despite the man exclaiming the Tong was there and that he'd seen the tattoo to prove it. So they'd come back home for the night, needing to solve the crime as fast as possible.

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John remarked as they entered the flat, Sarah still with them.

"They won't leave," Sherlock shook his head, "Not without finding what they came for. We need to find a hideout, a rendezvous," he moved to the mirror, staring at the eighteen symbols, "Somewhere in this message it must tell us."

Sarah shuffled awkwardly as the two men stared at the mirror display, "Well, I think, maybe, I should leave you to it…"

"Oh, you don't have to go yet...does she Sherlock? Stay a bit," John said, at the same time Sherlock replied, "Yes. It would be easier to study if you left now."

John glared at Sherlock before smiling at Sarah, "He's kidding. Stay if you like."

"Is it just me?" she tried to cut the tension, "Or is anyone else starving?"

John nodded and headed to the kitchen as Sherlock continued to study the cipher, before sighing and heading to his papers, scattering them as he searched through them.

"So…" Sarah began, watching Sherlock, "This is what you do. You and John," he was silent, "You solve puzzles. For a living."

"Consulting detective," he bit out, impatient.

"Ah…" she looked down at the desk as he wrote something, noticing the paper with the squiggles in the evidence bag, "What are these squiggles?"

"They're numbers. Written in an ancient Chinese dialect."

"Of course. Yes. Should have known that," she squinted at the squiggles, seeing writing below the first two, "So...these numbers. It's a cipher."

"Exactly."

"And each pair of numbers is a word."

Sherlock finally looked over at her, interested, "How did you know?"

"Two words are translated here," she held up the picture to show him that the first two numbers had words underneath.

"How did you do that?"

"I didn't. It was already written."

He snatched the paper from her, looking at it as John walked back with some nibbles Mrs. Hudson had provided, "John, look. Soo Lin, at the museum, she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it. 'Nine Mil...'"

"Maybe it means 'million,'" John remarked.

"'Nine million quid...' For what? We need the end of the sentence," he rushed for the door.

"Where you going?!"

"To the museum. The restoration office, we must have been staring at it."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed and turned around, "The _book_ John, _the_ book. The key to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst you and I were running round the galleries, she started to translate the code. That book is in her office!" and with that, he ran out the door, onto the street to hail a cab, but none would stop.

He turned to run down the street, racing around a corner, only to collide with two German tourists, looking at 'A to Z of London,' making the book fall to the ground.

"Sorry," he scooped up the book and shoved it back to them, "Sorry," and dashed off, only to stop on another corner, seeing two Japanese tourists with the same book, realizing _that_ _book_ had been in Van Coon's flat and office, Lukis's flats, _and_ on Soo Lin's desk.

"Everyone carries it," he muttered, "No one would think twice if they saw it. It's...invisible!" he turned and ran to the German couple, snatching the book back, "Just a second," he muttered as they began to shout at him in German.

He just flipped to page 15, "'Deadman's Lane,' Dead man. You were threatening to kill them. That's the first cipher," he tugged the paper out of his pocket and began to translate the other symbols.

"Nine Elms Lane,' 'Mill Hill,' 'Fore Street,' 'Jade Close,' 'Pin Street,' 'Dragon Road,' 'Den Close,' 'Black Acre Close,' 'Tramway Avenue…'" he frowned, looking at what he'd written, "Nine Mill Fore Jade Pin Dragon Den Black Tramway."

He shoved the book back to the tourists and ran back into 221 Baker Street, "John, I've got it. The key to the cipher. The book. It's the 'London A to Z,' that's what they're using..." he burst into 221B, only to see it empty, two trays of plates and cutlery lying there, John and Sarah nowhere to be found. His eyes widened, seeing a death cipher on the window in yellow aerosol.

He ran to the bookshelf and found a map of London, spreading it on the table, "Tramway...tramway..." he finally found it, circling it before bolting out of the room.

~8~

"You're _sure_ this is it?" Greg asked, eyeing the tramway before them.

"You were the one following the car," Jacqueline replied. They'd camped outside 221 Baker Street, waiting, just _knowing_ that the planner would be coming to collect Sherlock after his little display at the theater. They'd been a bit shocked though, when John and Sarah had been taken instead.

Greg sighed, getting his gun, "Shall we?"

She shook her head, "No…"

"No?"

"Sherlock will be on his way, they won't risk killing anyone else till they learn where whatever they're after is. They've killed the only ones who know besides him, they _can't_ risk not finding it. They'll wait as long as they need to. When Sherlock gets here, he'll find a way to stop them, I have no doubt about that…but I _do_ doubt the planner will stick around…she'll try to escape."

"So what do we do?" Greg asked, not liking the idea of not doing anything to help John or Sarah.

"We grab her when she flees...out the back."

Greg sighed, moving to follow her towards the back, hoping her profile was right and they weren't about to witness another murder _and_ lose their criminal.

~8~

Sherlock stepped into the hideout of the Black Lotus, following the sounds of voices to the end of a tunnel, seeing John tied to a chair, the opera singer, sans makeup but wearing sunglasses, brandishing a knife at him, Zhi Zhu standing there, expressionless, while the crossbow was set up, directed at Sarah, who was gagged but screaming. Apparently, from what the opera singer was saying, she believed John was the great Sherlock Holmes, despite John's protests against it.

"You've seen the act before," the opera singer sneered, "How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"I'm not Holmes!" John insisted.

"I don't believe you!" she glared.

"You should, you know," Sherlock called, stepping into the light behind them, "Sherlock Holmes is a great deal more pompous. With a 'U.' And a great deal more...what was the word, John?"

"Late!" John shouted.

Sherlock simply swung a metal pipe and knocked the man who had attacked him backstage out, before rushing forward to save Sarah, only for the opera singer to raise her gun, making him stop.

He glanced from the sandbag, still leaking sand, to the gun in the woman's hand, "That's a semi-automatic. You fire it, the bullet will travel at a thousand meters per second."

"Well?" the woman shook her head.

"Well, these walls have a radius of curvature of nearly four meters. If you miss, then the bullet will ricochet," he smirked as the woman faltered, "Who knows where? You could hit anyone. The bullet could bounce around the tunnel and hit _you_."

"I have no intention of missing."

"Still...I'd take those glasses off. Can't shoot straight in the _dark_..." he quickly lashed out and kicked over a burning brazier, the flames extinguished. He dove into the shadows, behind an oil drum as the woman fired and missed, the bullet, as he'd said, ricocheting around the tunnel, narrowly missing John.

Zhi Zhu ran at Sherlock in the shadows, getting a cloth around Sherlock's neck and squeezing. Sarah screamed in her gag, seeing the crossbow about to fire. John toppled over on his chair and scrambled to it as the opera singer held up her gun but couldn't fire for fear of the bullet ricocheting again. John gave a grunt and kicked out, knocking over the crossbow as it fired, missing Sarah and hitting Zhi Zhu in the heart. He dropped Sherlock, who fell to the ground, gasping, before scrambling over to Sarah, releasing her as the opera singer ran off.

"I don't suppose there's a chance of a second date some time?" John tried to smile at Sarah.

She just laughed…and cried…

~8~

The back door to the tramway opened, the opera singer, Shan, fleeing. She glanced back inside as she ran out to make sure she wasn't being followed…

What a mistake.

For a moment later, she found herself flying onto her back, her chest heaving from a blow.

She looked up, wheezing, to see a blonde woman in a white pea coat standing above her, her arm straight out.

Jacqueline smirked, looking over at Greg, who seemed shocked that the slip of a woman had managed to clothesline a crime boss.

She laughed, "Learned that one from a dear friend in America," she remarked.

Greg just shook his head and walked over to Shan, cuffing her as they heard police sirens drawing nearer.

~8~

Sherlock watched as Sarah was led away with a red shock blanket over her shoulders by the police, who had swarmed the old tramway after John called them. He stood by John as they exited the tunnel to see Dimmock waiting.

"We'll just slip off," Sherlock remarked, "No need to mention us in the report."

"Mr. Holmes..." Dimmock began.

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career."

"I go where you point me?"

"Exactly," Sherlock smirked, though John could see a tension in his smile.

He frowned as Sherlock walked away, more police arriving, "What's wrong?" he asked when Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked it, a small frown forming on his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought the man was… _worried_.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied quickly, John unable to tell he was lying.

It had taken too long, it _was_ taking too long. Her cases didn't last _this_ long. Something had to be _wrong_. And now, for all his best efforts against it, he _was_ worried.

He quickly sent a text and slipped the phone into his pocket.

_R U OK?_  
**SH**

~8~

"So," Jacqueline smiled, sitting before Greg in his office, smirking, "How did I do?"

He shook his head, laughing lightly, "As well as you always have," he told her, making her laugh, "You haven't lost your touch at all. You were right on all counts. The planner _was_ a woman, with short hair, older, fled out the back, which led us to capture her _alive_."

"Yes, well, you don't hang around Sherlock as long as I have and not pick up a few tricks on reading things."

"Must have come in handy in your career."

"Very," she nodded, "My team still has trouble understanding how I come to the conclusions I do."

"Comes from knowing Sherlock I suppose."

"What I want to know, Detective Inspector Lestrade," she smirked, leaning forward, using his full title, "Is…did I pass?"

He smirked as well, "With flying colors," he reached out and shook her hand, "Welcome to Scotland Yard. I can't wait to do more work with you Leena."

She laughed, getting up with her things, "Don't let Sherlock hear you calling me that," she glanced over at him, "If you value your life, you may want to start calling me Jackie like everyone else."

Greg Lestrade laughed heartily as she mock saluted him and headed out of the office, checking her phone on the way.

She smiled seeing a single text.

~8~

Sherlock sighed as he entered 221B Baker Street the next morning. He and John had gone to Shad Sanderson again, him to meet with Van Coon's assistant, John to tell Sebastian the outcome of the case. He'd had to tell the assistant that the little green pin she wore in her hair, clearly a gift from her boss/lover Van Coon, had been the Dragon Pin, worth _9 million pounds_. He'd worked it out when he'd seen the same hand soap in her office as the man's flat that they were lovers, and Van Coon had tried to make up for something by giving her a gift…what a gift it was.

They'd then gone to the museum after, showing the director the pin, while also letting Andy know what happened to Soo Lin, making a deposit with Sebastian's payment in her name so she would forever be known as a benefactor of the museum. John's day had been _made_ when, as they'd left, he'd gotten a call that his court date had been cancelled, he didn't bother to ask why, just happy he wouldn't have to go.

HE, on the other hand, his day had been rather tense. He sighed, plopping down into the sofa, staring down at his phone. He hadn't received a reply yet. _Nothing_. She _always_ texted back when he contacted her, _always_. Even if she told him not to text her, she'd at least text that she couldn't talk. He placed the phone down and moved to the window, needing _something_ to distract himself with, people watching, honing his skills would have to do for now.

He'd only gotten through three people when his phone pinged and he dashed back to it.

_Just perfect :)_  
**L**

He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we know, for sure, Jacqueline/Jackie/Leena are one in the same! :) There'll be more on her name, her surname, in the next chapter, along with the crossover, and the reason behind her own nickname for Sherlock with a tiny explanation for 'Operation: Maid Marian' too :)
> 
> I always thought it was weird that Lestrade wasn't in this episode, that he was mysteriously doing something else. It fit SO well with my thought to have Leena return. Now we know where he was, off helping her get a job :) ...I wonder how Sherlock will react when he finds out Lestrade knew she was back before him? Hmmm...


	5. The Great Game: The Profile

"Just tell me what happened from the beginning," Sherlock sighed as he sat before a man in prison garb, the man had been arrested for murdering his wife and was looking to him to get him off the charges.

"We had been to a bar," the man began, "Nice place, and, er, I got chatting with one of the waitresses. And Karen weren't happy with that, so when we get back to the hotel, we end up having a bit of a ding-dong. Don't we? She's always getting at me, saying I weren't a real man…"

"Wasn't a real man," Sherlock corrected.

"What?" the man frowned, confused.

"It's not 'weren't.' It's 'wasn't,'" he frowned, catching himself. Good Lord, he sounded just like Leena. Of the two of them she'd always been more for the books and grammar while he'd been for observation and science, facts. And here he was, more concerned about correcting some man's use of the English language than getting said facts. He shook his head, "Go on."

"Well, then I don't know how it happened. But suddenly there's a knife in my hands...and you know me old man was a butcher. So I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up to a beast…"

"Taught," he found himself correcting, again, convincing himself he was correcting the man's grammar in order to get the facts right.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Leena hadn't responded to any of his texts the last few days.

He'd only gotten a small text that she was 'just perfect' before she'd stopped replying period. He was trying to work out whether he'd somehow done something to anger her or…the less pleasant thought…that she was hurt or in trouble.

No, she had to be mad at him.

He'd rather that than the notion of her being in danger permeating through his mind.

"What?" the man shook his head again.

"Taught you how to cut up a beast."

"Yeah, well, then I done it…"

" _Did_ it!" he snapped, now starting to get irritated.

Now he was starting to think about what if Leena _was_ in danger, and here he was, sitting with a grammatically incompetent murderer while she _needed_ him.

"Did it. Stabbed her. Over and over and over, and I looked down, and she weren't…wasn't…moving no more…any more. God help me, I dunno how it happened. But it was an accident, I swear…"

Sherlock just pushed his chair back and got up, walking off. That was it, listening to this man talking about stabbing some woman…she'd gone from being just some woman in his mind to being Leena.

No, this wouldn't do.

He had to get out of there, contact her some way.

God help him, ask MYCROFT for help if he had to…

"Er, you've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes!" the man called, making him pause, "Everyone says you're the best. Without you…I'll get hung for this."

"No, not at all, Mr. Bewick," he glanced back at the man, smirking, " _Hanged_ , yes."

And with that, he turned and strode out of the room.

~8~

Sherlock sat in 221B Baker Street, in his light blue dressing gown, looking at the large yellow smiley face he'd painted on the wall. It was _mocking_ him. He looked at the gun in his hands and aimed at the smiley face, shooting it.

"What _the hell_ are you doing?" John Watson shouted as he ran into the flat, fearing the worst.

"Bored," he lied.

Well, it was only a _partial_ lie.

He WAS bored, but only because he was waiting for Mycroft to get back to him about Leena. And…he was starting to get worried. Typically Mycroft knew _exactly_ where Leena was and what she was doing at any given moment, using his pull as the British Government to get the American Government to keep tabs on her for him. Now, he was actually starting to worry, for _Mycroft_ not to know…something was _wrong_.

"What?"

"Bored!" he shouted, getting up, shooting the face again.

"No," John ran over, seeing him about to fire more.

"Bored," he shot, moving to fire from behind his back, "Bored," he frowned as John took the gun from him, "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them," he walked over to the wall to examine it.

"So you take it out on the wall?" John eyed him as though he'd gone mad, but really he should have expected this from Sherlock.

The man had…rather odd ways of keeping himself busy. If he wasn't searching through the police records for any sort of case, he was working on some sort of experiment or another…he'd actually rather the shooting of the wall than finding another lump of intestines hanging in the shower again. Apparently Sherlock had wanted to know how long it took fresh intestines to dry.

"The wall had it coming," he remarked, falling down onto the sofa.

"What about that Russian case?"

"Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Oh, shame," John nodded, heading for the kitchen, "Anything in? I'm starving…" he opened the fridge and nearly jumped out of his skin seeing something staring back at him from the inside, "Oh, f…" he shut the door quickly, gasping from the shock, before opening it again to make sure what he'd seen had _really_ been in there.

Yep.

He closed it and turned to Sherlock, "There's a head. A severed head."

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock called, completely unfazed.

"No, there's a head in the fridge."

"Yes?" he looked over.

"A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock shook his head, "You don't mind, do you?"

"Well…"

"Got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," he glanced at John's laptop, "I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Er, yes."

"'A Study in the Pink.' Nice," he absently reached out and picked up a magazine.

"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

"Um, no."

"Why not? I thought you'd be...flattered..."

"Flattered?" he scoffed, putting down the magazine to look over at John, "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things…'"

"Hang on a minute, I didn't mean that…"

"Oh," he rolled his eyes, "You meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a _nice_ way. Look, it doesn't matter to me. Who's Prime Minister or…"

"Yeah, I know," John sat down in his armchair.

"Who's sleeping with who…"

"Whether the earth goes round the sun," John muttered.

Sherlock pressed his hands to his eyes, "Not _that_ again. It's not important."

"Not import…" John shook his head, utterly bewildered at how Sherlock could say that, "It's _primary_ school stuff. _How_ can you not know that?"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

"Listen," he sat up to face John, "This," he pointed at his head, "Is my hard drive. And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. That makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

"But it's the _solar system_!"

"Oh, hell," he rubbed his head, "What does that matter? So we go round the sun. If we went round the moon or 'round and round the garden like a teddy bear,' it wouldn't make any difference," he sighed, thinking about exactly how useless both those bits of information were. Unfortunately that particular rhyme had been Leena's favorite when a child, she'd made him memorize it, swear not to delete it, and recite it to her whenever she got ill to make her feel a bit better. He shook himself from his thoughts, the more he thought about Leena, the more he would worry, he needed a distraction, "All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put _that_ in your blog. Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world," he shoved the magazine away and turned his back on John, curling up on the sofa. He only glanced over when he heard John get up, "Where are you going?"

"Out," John grabbed his coat, "I need some air."

"Oh, sorry love," Mrs. Hudson called as she stepped into the room, nearly running into John on his way out, "Woo. Have you two had a little domestic?" she looked at Sherlock, smiling softly. She knew the boys weren't together, because she'd met Leena, and if there was _any_ woman in the world that could put up with Sherlock and handle him, it was her. Now she just had to hope they'd both _realize_ that, well, that _Sherlock_ would realize that, "Oh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

Sherlock sighed and got up, literally stepping over the coffee table to move to the window, watching John get into a black cab and drive off, "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?"

"Oh, I'm sure something will turn up Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson remarked, absently starting to straighten the room, "A nice murder. That'll cheer you up."

"Can't come too soon," he muttered.

"Hey, what have you done to my bloody wall?" she gasped before storming out of the room, "I'm putting this on your rent young man..."

Sherlock just smiled at the wall as she left before turning to look at the room with a sigh. He'd just spotted his phone, lying on the coffee table, still, when an explosion outside knocked him to the floor.

~8~

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he entered the flat to see Sherlock, completely at ease, sitting, now dressed, on an armchair, strumming his violin, with Mycroft across from him.

"John," he greeted.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you ok?"

"Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine. Gas leak, apparently," he glanced at his brother, "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft scoffed.

"Stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?" Sherlock smirked.

" _Fine_. Perhaps you can get through to him, John?"

"What?" John asked, confused, when Mycroft turned to him.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen," Sherlock countered, "Why don't _you_ investigate it?"

Mycroft smirked, earning a curious look from Sherlock. He knew his younger brother had caught it, knew he was keeping a secret now too, "No, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…well," he grinned, "You don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this. It requires legwork."

"How's Sarah, John?" Sherlock turned to John, trying not to be curious as to what Mycroft was keeping hidden from him, knowing it was probably a trick to get him onboard, "How was the lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected, "It was the sofa."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"How..." John began before shaking his head, "Oh, never mind."

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored."

"Good, that's good, isn't it?" Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, who just gave him a look. He stood, about to hand Sherlock the information on the case, when he held up his violin bow at him, halting him. He rolled his eyes and turned to John, handing it to him instead, "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John guessed.

"Seems the logical assumption."

"But?"

"But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident."

"Huh?" Sherlock looked up from checking his phone.

"The MoD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce-Partington Program it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever," John remarked.

"It's not the _only_ copy. But it _is_ secret. And missing..."

"Top secret?"

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands," he glanced at Sherlock, "You've got to find those plans Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock scoffed, putting the violin on his shoulder, looking up at Mycroft in the process.

"Think it over," he grinned again, "I'm sure you'll find this case worth your while," Sherlock frowned and stared at him. He just let out a small, secretive laugh, and turned to John, "Goodbye John. See you very soon."

Sherlock just played a few screeching notes on the violin till Mycroft left.

John nodded, waiting till Mycroft had gone before turning to Sherlock, "Why did you lie? You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, nice," he rolled his eyes, "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answered his phone the moment it pinged, his heart leaping, only to fall when _Lestrade_ spoke on the other end, "Of course. How can I refuse?" he closed the phone and turned to John, "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

"If you want me to," John sighed.

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger," he smirked.

~8~

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Lestrade asked as he led Sherlock and John through Scotland Yard and into his office, "The surprising ones?"

"Obviously," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You'll love this. That explosion..."

"Gas leak, yes?"

Lestrade grinned, "No."

"No?" Sherlock asked, interested.

"No, made to _look_ like one."

"What?"

"Hardly anything left of the place. Except a strongbox. A _very_ strong box and inside it was this..." he handed Sherlock an envelope.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock eyed it.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" he nodded at the name written on the paper, "We've x-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped..."

"How reassuring," Sherlock said dryly, before moving over to a lamp and examining the envelope, "Nice stationery. Bohemian."

"What?" John squinted at it, trying to see how he knew that.

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No..." Lestrade nodded.

"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, Merdian nib."

"She?" John frowned.

"Obviously," he took a letter opener and cut along the edge of the envelope, pulling out a bright pink phone.

"Obviously," John rolled his eyes before noticing the familiar phone, "That...that's the phone. The pink phone."

"What?" Lestrade looked over, "From the 'Study in Pink?'"

"Obviously it's not the _same_ phone," Sherlock remarked, "But it's supposed to _look_ like…" and then what Lestrade said caught up to him and he turned to face the man, "'Study in Pink?' You _read_ his _blog_?"

Lestrade grinned, "Of course I read his blog. We all do. Do you really not know that the earth goes round the sun?"

Sherlock glared and turned back to the phone, "It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone which means your blog has a far wider readership..." he hit a button to see there was one new message.

He played the message, hearing five pips play out on speaker.

"Was that it?" Lestrade frowned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "No, that's not it," he hit another button and a photo of a rather run down room came up, a fireplace in the background, dark, dusty.

"What in the hell are we supposed to make of _that_?" Lestrade asked as he and John gathered around Sherlock to look, "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips."

"It's a warning," Sherlock stated.

Lestrade looked at him, "A warning?"

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds," a voice said from behind them. The three men turned to see a woman standing a foot into the room, the door open behind her, "Orange pips, things like that, always _five_ pips though. They're warning you that it's going to happen again. I was involved in a case once with an arsonist who was much the same, always sent a message."

"Who are you?" John frowned, looking at the woman.

She was average height, light blonde hair just down to her chest that hung straight with a little wave to it. She was dressed in black pants with a hint of pinstripe to them, black flats, a red jumper, and an open white pea coat over it, clearly having just come in from outside. She was smirking at them, at Sherlock more specifically, her gray eyes shining with amusement and happiness.

John looked to his side to see Lestrade smiling at the woman as Sherlock just stared back at her. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought the man was shocked.

"Sorry," Sally Donovan entered the room, "I tried to tell her you were in a meeting but she just barged right on in."

Lestrade held up a hand when she moved to grab the woman's arm, "It's alright," he waved her off as Donovan frowned, "I'd like to introduce the newest addition to the Yard's new Profiling Unit…Ja…"

"Leena?" Sherlock breathed, his gaze still on the woman.

Her smirk morphed into a smile, "Hello Sherwood," she greeted.

He shook his head, trying to gather himself again, "What are you doing here?"

She rolled her eyes at him, "I'm hardly going to tell you till I get one."

"One what?" John asked, very confused.

Sherlock however, just walked right over to her, quite briskly if John had to describe it, and opened his arms. The woman, Leena, half-threw her own around his neck, hugging him tightly as…Sherlock Holmes returned the hug just as tight. John's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't help but glance out the window to make sure there were no fire and brimstone raining down signaling the apocalypse starting.

Nope, just rain.

"Oh I _missed_ this!" Leena sighed, not noticing the shocked looks on the others' faces, "Four years is _far_ too long to go without a Holmes Hug," she pulled back and smiled at Sherlock.

"You weren't due back for another year," he remarked, eyeing her.

She shook her head, "Your brother had the government 'lose' my visa," Sherlock began to frown, frustrated that Mycroft had gotten involved once more, "But, of course," she smirked, "I had a duplicate to prove I was, in fact, allowed in the country."

He eyed her, confused a moment, if she _had_ proof to _stay_ there, why was she _here_ , "Then why…"

"I _missed you_ Sherwood," she told him softly. He began to actually smile, "And besides, I do so love making Mycroft THINK he's in charge."

He grinned as well, they both loved fooling his brother, their friendship founded partially on that little fact. The same thing had been what sparked the feud he and Mycroft were now waging.

"Sorry," John cut in, still very confused and slightly disturbed to see Sherlock so…human, "But, who are you again?"

"Jackie Holmes," she smiled.

"You've a sister?" John looked at Sherlock, how many siblings did this man have?

"God no," Sherlock remarked dryly, "One sibling is more than enough, thank you," and then he wrapped an arm around Leena's waist, "I've a wife."

John nearly choked on air as Donovan's mouth dropped open in horror that someone would actually _marry_ the freak. Only Lestrade seemed calm, and only because he knew the truth, he had the woman's file and what her marital status was...or wasn't.

Sherlock and Leena were serious a moment longer before they both burst out in laughter, "Oh Sherwood!" she laughed, "You need to stop doing that!"

"Well you should stop introducing yourself as Jackie Holmes then," he countered.

"Never!" she declared, leaning on him a bit as his arm was still around her waist though he didn't seem to realize that fact.

"So… _not_ his wife then?" John had to ask, just for his sanity.

"No," she reassured him, walking over to hold out her hand, "I'm Jac…"

"Do the accent," Sherlock cut in.

She rolled her eyes, mumbling to herself, "You and my bloody accent, ought to marry it one day," before sighing and turning back to John, "Jacqueline Angelique Jerrard," she introduced, a heavy French accent to her name before she dropped it, "But you can call me Jackie. Sherwood here," she nodded back at Sherlock, "Seems to have called perpetual 'dibs' on Leena."

"You're French," John noted, shaking her hand, before frowning in thought, "But…there's another accent on top of your English one…" he hesitated a moment, "American?"

Leena smiled at him, "You're John Watson right?"

"Right, yes," he nodded, letting go of her hand.

She nodded as well, eyeing him, "Sherwood was right about you, you are _brilliant_."

John blinked, stunned, "He said I was brilliant?" his mouth dropped open at the thought.

"Well…" she paused, "He said you weren't a complete idiot," John nodded, _that_ was more like Sherlock, "But in Sherlockish that means he thinks you're brilliant."

John laughed at the term, Sherlockish, yes Sherlock certainly did seem to have his own language to him.

"And you're right," she continued, "I've been working in America for the last four years, for the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit," John stared at her, "We profile criminals to help the authorities spot and catch them."

He nodded.

"Who's she?" another voice asked. They turned to see Anderson had joined a still mildly shocked Donovan in the doorway.

Lestrade opened his mouth to introduce her once more, when Sherlock held up a hand to stop him before gesturing to the duo in the door. Leena frowned as she eyed them closely, both of them shifting a bit under her gaze.

"Anderson and Donovan?" she asked Sherlock after a moment. He nodded and so did she, he'd never sent her photos of the people he often complained about in their talks and emails and texts, but she just knew who they were. Really, just looking at them gave it away. They were standing close together, obviously very used to being close. It could have just been as good friends but the fact that they both smelled like men's body wash, the _same_ body wash, told her differently…and then there was Anderson's wedding ring he was fidgeting with and Donovan's lack of one. She smirked and walked over to them, "Hello, I'm Jackie," she introduced politely, "Just a fair warning, if we're to be working together in the future," she leaned in, "Disrespect Sherlock in front of me and I cannot be held accountable for my actions, which will result in either of you, or both of you, injured or dead."

Donovan's eyes widened, actually _frightened_. And why _wouldn't_ she be? Here was a girl who seemed so polite and good-natured, threatening that with such a serious tone…and her relation with Sherlock…she didn't doubt the woman would do it.

"The hell…" Anderson glared at her before turning to Lestrade, "Aren't you going to do something about her?!"

Lestrade sighed, "You can be arrested for threatening a police officer," he muttered to Leena.

She just glanced back over her shoulder at him, "Oh, so you would arrest the woman who can get him," she nodded at Sherlock, "To give up a case with a single word?"

They all stared at her with a mixture of shock and disbelief, shock at what she claimed able to do and disbelieving that Sherlock would EVER give up a case. She rolled her eyes at them and walked over to Sherlock, who had tensed, as though knowing what was coming.

"Give up the case?" she asked him.

He tensed more, "Don't do this…" he warned her quietly.

She just reached out and took his hand in both of hers, looking up into his eyes, " _Please_."

He struggled. They could actually _see_ him struggle to say no to her. It looked quite painful. But when he couldn't tear himself away from her eyes he sighed, "Fine…" he grumbled.

She smirked and looked at Lestrade smugly, "Point proven I hope?" she asked him. He could only nod, stunned. She smiled and turned back to Sherlock, "So, what was the message you got with the pips again?"

He blinked and shook his head at her, he should have known that, despite being able to get him to give up a case, that she'd never actually make him do so. He held up the phone to reveal the old fireplace in a very run down room.

"I've seen this place before," Sherlock muttered.

Leena nodded in thought, "Well then," she nudged him with a playful smirk, putting on her French accent, "Allons-y!"

She turned and walked out of the room, past a stunned Anderson and Donovan, who Sherlock smugly smirked at as he passed with her. John and Lestrade took a moment longer to overcome their shock before rushing out after the pair, afraid that the girl was just as likely to leave in the first cab without them as Sherlock was.

John frowned, "Hang on," he called dashing after them, "What's going to happen again?"

"Boom!" was all Sherlock said.

~8~

"Why do you call him Sherwood?" John asked Leena as the four of them sat in a cab on the way back to 221 Baker Street.

"My favorite story when I was a child was 'Robin Hood,'" she shrugged, "His name was close enough to Sherwood Forest."

"You knew him as a child?" John semi-guessed. The closeness between the two, the comfort Sherlock clearly felt around her and vice versa, it could only come from a _lifetime_ around one another.

"Very good," she nodded as Sherlock fiddled on his phone, looking up information, "My family moved to England from France when I was 7," she explained, "My father and his were business partners so we were often around each other growing up. I spent hours in the library at their home trying to read to better my English, Sherwood would always hang around there reading as well. One day he just cornered me about the books."

"The books?" why would he have to corner her about that?

"She had this infernal habit of taking a pile of books and returning them only hours later," Sherlock muttered, "Very distracting when one is trying to read their own book to have her constantly walking past."

"He asked me what I was doing with them," Leena picked up, "And I asked him why he didn't just deduce it."

John laughed, it seemed Sherlock had been at it even as a child, "What did he say?"

Leena smirked, "He simply remarked, 'I asked you first,' quite childish if I'm honest," she nudged Sherlock good-naturedly.

John could only shake his head at that, he couldn't quite imagine Sherlock as childish…or even as a child.

"So why _didn't_ you deduce her?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "I decided to challenge myself."

John rolled his eyes, only Sherlock would consider human interaction a challenge.

"Between my broken English and his horrible French we managed to strike up a friendship," Leena finished, "He helped me learn English, I bettered his French, and we just…worked well together."

John nodded, interesting, "Did you ever find out what she was doing with the books?"

"Memorizing them," Sherlock muttered a bit sullen.

Leena rolled her eyes at him, nudging him for his jealousy of her talent, and turned to a confused John, "I have an eidetic memory," she explained, "Everything I've read, I remember."

"Wow," his eyes widened, "That's incredible."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, surprising John. He hardly ever complimented ANYONE.

If one thing was certain, Leena's presence was bound to make things interesting.

~8~

Sherlock stepping into 221 Baker Street, coming to a stop before the door to 221A, "Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson came through from the kitchen, smiling as soon as she saw Leena standing there, "Jacqueline dear," she went to hug her, "Good to see you again," she gave the girl a wink, letting her know she'd keep the secret of her having been there, just under Sherlock's nose, from him, "How are you?"

"Just fine thanks," she smiled, "But I'm sure Sherwood feels there are more pressing matters at hand."

Sherlock nodded, "We need to see 221A."

Mrs. Hudson frowned, "You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat?" she asked as she handed over the key to the basement flat.

"The door's been opened," Sherlock observed, opening a lock, "Recently."

"No," Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "Can't be. That's the only key. I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp. I expect that's the curse of basements."

"I'd love to rent it if you'd like Mrs. Hudson," Leena offered as Sherlock opened the last lock.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, turning to her, the locks forgotten.

She rolled her eyes, "Your brother 'lost' my visa remember? That means I'm back here for a good long while. I need a place to stay. And I know I'd prefer one closer to you than on his couch again," she nodded over at Lestrade, who took to intently looking around the hall to avoid Sherlock's fierce glare.

"That wasn't what I meant," Sherlock turned back to her.

"Then what did you mean?" she smirked and he narrowed his eyes.

She knew EXACTLY what he meant, she just wanted him to _say_ it. She _always_ did that…made him seem human to others. He was quite content in his sociopathic tendencies, but she seemed determined to make others realize that he was, in fact, a human being as well.

"I meant that you're staying with me, of course."

"Me?" John raised an eyebrow at that, "Don't you mean _us_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at how slow they were, "No, ME. As Mrs. Hudson implied when you came to see 221B, my bedroom is big enough for two."

The men stared at him, completely shocked that Sherlock Holmes, the sociopathic consulting detective, had just offered to basically share, not just a room, but a _bed_ with a woman.

"What?" he asked, seeing their open-mouthed gapes.

Leena smiled and shook her head, "They assume you'll be warming my bed at night as well," she explained. She often did that, picked up on the social cues he missed, explained the reactions of others to him when he missed it. He blinked before rolling his eyes as she turned to the men, "He hardly ever sleeps and when he does he prefers the sofa."

John had to nod at that, calmer now, he _had_ noticed Sherlock preferred to just lie about on the sofa when thinking or sleeping. In fact, he could probably count the number of times he'd seen Sherlock actually go into his room for more than five minutes on one hand.

"And I'm not about to let you make that," Sherlock grimaced, nodding at the door, as though the thought of her living in such a place was repulsive…which it was, "Your home. There's probably mold behind the wallpaper."

"I'd a place once when I was first married," Mrs. Hudson commented, "Black mold all up the wall…" she trailed off, when Sherlock just opened the door to the basement flat and headed down, followed by the trio.

Sherlock pushed open the door at the bottom of the steps, revealing the room from the photo, the fireplace, the peeled wallpaper, but with one difference. There, lying in the middle of the room, was a pair of shoes.

"Shoes," John frowned. Sherlock moved towards them when he called out, "He's a _bomber_ , remember," making Sherlock pause and simply move around the shoes, observing them.

Sherlock crouched down and got as close as he could to the shoes, just starting to analyze them when the pink phone began to ring. He stood and pulled it out of his pocket, glancing at Leena, before putting it on speaker, "Hello."

"Hello," a woman spoke, "Sexy."

Leena frowned, not at what the woman was saying to Sherlock, but _how_ she was saying it. She sounded terrified, and she was upset, clearly her words were not her own. Sherlock noticed her expression and nodded to her, both of them thinking the same.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"I've sent you a little puzzle. Just to say hi."

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"She's not crying," Leena cut in, "She's reading," the men looked at her, she rolled her eyes in a very Sherlock-esque fashion, making the man himself grin at it, "The pauses between her words, the halting way she's speaking, and the fact that she's crying means the words are not her own. Someone's telling her what to say. Probably typing it based on the length of time its taking her to say it."

"Very good," the woman remarked, "I AM typing and this stupid bitch IS reading it out. What a clever girlfriend you have Mr. Holmes."

"The curtain rises," Sherlock smirked, completely missing the looks Lestrade and John were giving him at the fact that he hadn't corrected the mystery caller when they called Leena his girlfriend.

"What?" John frowned.

"Nothing," Sherlock shook his head, sending a grin at Leena, who smiled, knowing he loved puzzles like this.

"No. What did you mean?"

"He's been expecting this for some time now," Leena sighed.

John turned to her, "How do you know?"

She held up her mobile, "I've unlimited texting, international. Courtesy of Mycroft."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated that his brother had had a hand in allowing them to keep in touch as much as they had.

"12 hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock," the woman cut in, "Or…I 'm going to be so…naughty."

The call cut off.

~8~

Sherlock sat in St. Bart's, in the lab, examining the shoes more thoroughly, taking samples from it, looking at them under a microscope.

"So, who do you suppose it was?" John looked at Sherlock, "Woman on the phone, the crying woman."

"Oh, she doesn't matter…"

Leena, who had been running a computer program beside him, elbowed him in the ribs and he glared at her, she was _so_ empathetic, it was almost disgusting. Mycroft always joked that she was his humanity, she balanced him, her emotions against his sociopathic apathy. The only time he ever saw her being outright nasty to someone else, like how she was with Donovan and Anderson, was when they were being nasty to him.

His mind drifted back for a moment to their time in primary school. He'd been picked on quite a lot, never physically, the students afraid of his brother, but verbally. He never gave much thought to the stupid children's words, but Leena often got quite upset at them. One time he'd been in his bedroom, lying on his bed, reading, when Leena had come in and laid down beside him. He'd turned to greet her, only to see she had a split lip. He'd deduced someone had hit her, even narrowed it down to twin boys in their class, but hadn't been able to fathom what she could have said that would drive them to hit a girl. She'd just said that she'd hit them first for calling him a freak. He'd looked at her knuckles to see they were badly bruised, and learned the next day that the elder twin's nose was badly broken…which had made him smirk and made the other children back off quite a lot, especially when he threatened the younger twin against retaliating to hurt Leena as the boy had planned to do. The other children had left them alone after that, the two of them growing closer as the other's only company as they grew.

"She's a hostage," Leena countered.

"Which means there's no lead there."

"Really?" Leena eyed him.

"You can see one?"

She smirked, "I'm a _profiler_ Sherwood. _You_ may be able to tell us everything about the victim and the crime, but _I_ can tell you near enough about the unsub…" she winced, seeing their confused looks, "Sorry, American colloquialism, criminal. Based on what he's doing and how he's treating this woman."

Sherlock smirked, "Enlighten me."

John's eyes widened, it wasn't often that Sherlock wanted, or needed, something explained to him.

She smiled, "Well, off the preliminary profile, I can tell you that...he's narcissistic. He _wants_ you to know about him, be curious, be enticed. He wants your undivided attention, which is why he's using a hostage as motivation. He wants you to focus only on what _he's_ doing. He's clever," she took the pink phone from Sherlock, "I doubt you'd be able to trace the phone call, since it was sent TO you, he probably put fail-safes in. It's definitely a HE, selecting a woman as the first victim, taking pleasure in her crying, it's a man. The way he made her speak, women tend to add adjectives and more specific details than men do when leaving a message of that kind. Males also tend to be more direct and more about themselves and the person the message is intended for. He's young as well, you don't see many older men calling women 'bitches,' that's more the younger generation. He's also childish, probably prone to temper tantrums and wanting everything to go his way."

"How could you possibly…" John shook his head. He was used to this coming from _Sherlock_ , but someone _else_? Someone so…NOT Sherlock…

"The way he talked about being 'naughty.' A grown man, a _mature_ man, would say angry or offended or something else to describe putting someone in a dangerous position. Naughty? That's like a mother chastising her little boy to behave. He's definitely stunted in a child-like reality. He'll be playful, laughing, manic at times. I'd wager average height, average build, probably pale…"

"Pale?"

"Despite being child-like, he IS sophisticated. He's spent _ages_ planning these things out to a T. He had to watch people to know their routines, to get to them, to plant all this evidence. He probably, for lack of a better phrase, doesn't get out much. And when he does, he would take pride in his appearance, being narcissistic. I'd imagine a suit, slicked hair, clean shaven, shined shoes. Unless he's trying to blend in and manipulate you."

"Manipulate you?"

She nodded, "Child-like, remember? He'll love playing games and tricks on you. Fooling you. If he wanted to pass you in the street without you even knowing, he'd dress differently, act differently."

John just shook his head and looked at Sherlock, who was actually looking at Leena with a proud smile on his face.

Leena just smiled at Sherlock, "We make quite the team, don't we?" she asked him, "You figure out the crime, I figure out the criminal," she paused, hearing a ping from his pocket and pulled out his phone, "Text from your BomE."

"Bome?" John frowned.

"'Bane of my Existence,'" Sherlock explained quickly before turning back to the microscope, "Delete it."

"Delete it?" John shook his head, confused as to why he'd want that, what if his brother needed help?

"Missile plans are out of the country now," Sherlock sighed, "Nothing we can do about it."

Leena smirked, checking the phone, "Well, Mycroft _thinks_ there is. He's _texted_ you eight times," she laughed.

"Must be important," John remarked.

"Not important enough for him to cancel his dental appointment though."

"His what?" John frowned.

Leena sighed, "While Sherwood here texts everything, Mycroft hardly _ever_ texts if he can _talk_. Loves the sound of his own voice."

"Look," Sherlock cut in, "Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains, end of story. The only mystery is _this_ , why's my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try and remember there's a woman who might die," John commented dryly.

"What for? There's hospitals full of people dying, doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

"Sherwood!" Leena sighed, shaking her head, "He meant, a death you could actually _prevent_."

"Oh," he nodded.

She smiled, "I'll get us some coffees," she said, sensing this would be a long case and stepped out of the room, just as the computer pinged.

Sherlock turned to it, seeing that the search Leena had been running was complete. He'd just shifted towards it when Molly walked in from another door, having heard the beeping of the computer.

"Any luck?" Molly asked, heading over to the computer to help, not noticing Sherlock's mouth form a line at that.

That was _Leena's_ job, _she_ was the one running the computer program. The _last_ thing he needed was Molly mucking it up.

"Oh, yes."

"Oh, sorry," the door opened and a man called out, embarrassed that he'd intruded without knocking, "I didn't think…"

"Jim, hi," Molly smiled, waving him over, "Come in. Come in."

Jim smiled and walked in, his gaze on Sherlock, who gave him a quick onceover. He was pale, wearing a white shirt and jeans, his hair gelled back, a bit of his underwear peeking from his pants, his tinted eyelashes...

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly introduced, "And, er sorry…"

"John Watson," John smiled, shaking the man's hand, "Hi."

"Hi," Jim smiled timidly, before looking at Sherlock once more, "So, you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" he asked, walking around to stand on Sherlock's other side.

"Jim works in IT, upstairs," Molly explained, "That's how we met. Office romance."

"Gay," Sherlock mumbled, glancing at Jim.

Molly frowned, offended, "Sorry, _what_?"

"Nothing," he covered quickly, glancing at Jim, "Um, hey?"

"Hi," Jim smiled, knocking over some things as he went to lean on the table, scrambling to fix them as Sherlock watched, unamused, "Sorry. Sorry. Well, I'd better be off," he turned to Molly, "I'll see you at the Fox. About six?"

"Yeah," Molly nodded, "Bye."

"Bye," Jim turned to Sherlock, "It was nice to meet you," he stood there a moment, waiting for a reply, but none came.

"You too," John sighed.

Jim nodded and headed for the door, leaving.

"What do you mean _gay_?" Molly rounded on Sherlock, "We're _together_."

"And domestic bliss must suit you Molly," Sherlock grumbled, irritated that people _kept_ interrupting his examination, "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," she ground out.

"No. Three."

"Sherlock…" John sighed.

"He's not gay!" Molly insisted, "Why do you have to spoil…he's not."

"With _that_ level of personal grooming?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John shook his head, not following, " _I_ put product in my hair."

"You _wash_ your hair, there's a difference," they looked at him and he sighed, spelling it out for them, "Tinted eyelashes…clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly shifted.

"Visible above the waistline. _Very_ visible. Very _particular_ brand. Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish," he held up a small scrap of paper with Jim's name and number on it, "I'd say you'd better break if off now and save yourself the pain."

"Charming!" John grumbled as Molly stormed off, nearly running into Leena as she entered the room, "Well done."

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, that wasn't kind."

"What happened?" Leena asked as she walked over with the coffees, handing them to the boys.

"Guess," John grumbled, expecting her to say Sherlock was being Sherlock again.

She glanced back at the door however and turned back, "Girlfriend just found out boyfriend was gay?"

"How did you…" John gaped.

She smiled, "Passed a man in the hall, flirting with a male nurse…that Molly girl spotted it just as I was entering and stomped over to him," she shrugged, "What else could it be?"

John just shook his head, when Sherlock turned to him, "Go on then."

"What?" John frowned.

"You know what I do, and off you go," Sherlock looked at them, gesturing at the shoes.

"Oh, no," John shook his head.

"Go on."

"I'm not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate."

"He's just looking for an outside eye," Leena nudged him, taking a sip of her tea and munching on a small muffin, "A second opinion. You've no idea how much it actually helps him."

Sherlock nodded, "It's very useful to me."

It actually was, if the right word was spoken at the right time, an epiphany would hit and he'd be a step closer to solving a case. Leena was remarkably good at sparking his epiphanies, but she knew how his mind worked. John, on the other hand needed a bit more practice.

"Yeah, right," John scoffed.

"Really," Sherlock said seriously.

John looked at him a moment before sighing, "Fine," he missed Leena smirking at Sherlock from behind her cup, "Oh, they're just a pair of shoes. Trainers."

"Good."

"They're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new…" he hesitated.

"Go on," Leena encouraged, taking out her phone and running a search on them, they were fairly distinct, white with two blue stripes on the side of them. Sherlock had told her that John was a surprisingly intelligent man, well, surprising to Sherlock. He just naturally assumed almost everyone else was dim, but she knew the army doctor had to be intelligent, he had to have been in order to put up with Sherlock without killing him in the first few hours of having met him.

"Except the sole has been well worn. So the owner must have had them for a while. Er, very 80s. Probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on sparkling form…" Sherlock nodded, "What else?"

"They're quite big, a man's."

"But…" Leena nudged him.

"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip," John noticed, "Adults don't write their names inside their shoes. So these belong to a kid."

"Excellent job John," Leena leaned over and gave him a hug from the side, startling the man.

He'd actually thought that someone who had clearly had a close relationship with Sherlock must be like him. How else would Sherlock put up with them? But Leena...she was surprisingly different. She was like the anti-Sherlock, brilliant in different ways, what with her memory, but caring and warm. How the two had possibly become friends in the first place, especially if Sherlock had been much like he was now as a child, was beyond him. But, then again, there were people who became friends at a young age, before they realized they had nothing in common, and managed to stick it out, those sorts, he'd seen, tended to have the closest relationships. But…looking at them, he could easily see them being more than friends…something he _never_ thought he'd imagine in regards to Sherlock.

"What else?" Sherlock asked, pulling John from his thoughts.

"That's it," John shrugged.

"That's it?" Sherlock eyed him, turning away from where Leena had shown him something on her phone.

"How did I do?"

"Well, John…really well," Sherlock stated, making John smile, until…

"I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but you know," he held out a hand for John to give him the shoe before giving his own observations, "The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean. Whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three, no...four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them."

"So he suffered from eczema," Leena remarked.

He nodded, continuing, "The shoes _are_ well worn, more so on the inner side which means…" he pointed at Leena.

"The owner had weak arches."

"British made. 20 years old."

"20 years?" John blinked, surprised that Leena had been able to keep up with the man.

"They're not retro. They're _original_."

Leena held up her phone to show him the search on the shoes, "Limited edition. Two blue stripes, 1989."

"There's still mud on them," John shook his head, "They look new."

"Because the unsub kept them that way. He's planned this to a T remember? This just adds to the profile."

"Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles," Sherlock pointed.

"What did the analysis show?" Leena leaned over his shoulder to look at the computer.

"It's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?" John frowned, it just looked like blobs to him.

"Pollen," Leena pointed to a yellow one.

"Clear as a map reference to me," Sherlock nodded, "South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex 20 years ago. And left them behind."

"He wouldn't do that though," Leena shook her head, "You said he loved those shoes, he wouldn't just forget them."

John nodded, seeing that logic, "So, what happened to him?"

"Something bad," Sherlock replied, "As Leena pointed out, he wouldn't let them go unless he _had_ to. He wouldn't leave them filthy. So, a child with big feet gets…" he stopped.

"What?"

"Carl Powers," Sherlock looked at Leena.

"Oh my God," she gasped.

"Sorry, who?" John shook his head.

"Carl Powers."

"What is it?"

"It's where Sherwood began," Leena said softly, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

He reached up and squeezed it a moment before getting up and rushing out of the room, now pulling Leena along by that hand, John rushing after them.

~8~

"In 1989 a young kid," Leena began to explain as they sat in the back of a cab, Sherlock bringing up the reports on his phone, "A champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament and mysteriously drowned in the pool. A lot of people thought it was a tragic accident…"

"You wouldn't remember it," Sherlock waved him off as John's brow furrowed, trying to recall it, "Why should you?"

"But _you_ remember," John guessed.

"Yes."

"We _both_ do," Leena sighed, rubbing her head, "I read the news report and told Sherwood about it."

John watched as Sherlock reached out and took Leena's hand, squeezing it. And he recalled, her memory, she'd remember the report word for word, probably pictures too. For such a young girl to have to remember _that_ …

He shook his head, "Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so," Sherlock replied.

"Nobody except Sherwood that is," Leena added, "And then me once he explained it."

"But we were only kids ourselves."

"You started young, didn't you?" John eyed Sherlock and then Leena, he could only imagine what it must have been like to be a young Sherlock Holmes's friend.

Trying, he'd imagine.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong. Somewhere."

"Sherwood agonized over it for ages," Leena told him.

"I couldn't get it out of my head."

"What?" John frowned.

"His shoes."

"What about them?"

"They weren't there John," Leena explained.

"I made a fuss," Sherlock sighed, "I tried to get the police interested. But nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker. But there was no sign of his shoes. Until now."

~8~

Sherlock was sitting at the table in 221B Baker Street, sifting through papers, all the reports he'd found on Carl, while Leena sat beside him, searching through the internet for more clues.

"Can I help?" John asked them, opening a door to peer in.

He had to admit, he was actually _excited_ to be able to help. Clearly Leena had extensive experience working with Sherlock, both had seemed to go to their own designated tasks as soon as they entered the flat, Sherlock moving to the computer and printing out the information while Leena made lists and notes of the case and stuck them to the mirror before heading over to join him. He could learn a lot from her on how to handle and work with Sherlock.

"I want to help. There's only five hours left…" he trailed off when his phone pinged to see a text from Mycroft.

_Any developments?_  
**MH**

"It's your brother. He's texting _me_ now. How does he know my number?"

"Must be a root canal," Sherlock remarked to Leena, who nodded, understanding.

"Look, he _did_ say _national_ importance," John tried again.

"How quaint."

"What is?"

"You are," he scoffed, "Queen and Country."

"You can't just…ignore it!"

"I'm not ignoring it," Sherlock smirked, glancing at Leena, who smiled, "Putting my best the man onto it right now."

"Right, good," he nodded, "Wouldn't it be best _woman_?"

He laughed, "Of course not, I need Leena for this one."

"Oh," John nodded again, slowly, "So…who's your best man then?"

Sherlock just smiled at him and John sighed, he should have seen this coming.

HE was the best man.

~8~

"Poison," Leena nodded to Sherlock as John entered the flat, seeing her leaning over to look into the lens of the microscope, Sherlock beside her, his hand resting on her back.

"What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked, having just come to give them some food before heading out.

John offered her a small smile as she passed, still embarrassed about being sent out by Sherlock to Mycroft.

"Clostridium botulinum," Leena held up her phone, her information double checked with the image under the microscope, "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet."

She'd had a friend make a special app for her phone before she'd returned to London, basically like an uber-sophisticated search engine that could also use a program to automatically hack into the police records and other areas of London. She'd typed in all the symptoms that Carl would have experienced in order to drown and it shot out the Clostridium.

She really had to thank Penny when the case was over.

Sherlock nodded, "Carl Powers."

"Oh well," John rolled his eyes before frowning, "Are you saying he was _murdered_?"

"Remember the shoelaces. The boy suffered from eczema. It would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London. The poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles, and he drowns."

"Well, how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable," Leena read from her phone, "No one would have been looking for it," she watched as Sherlock moved to his laptop and typed in 'FOUND: Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B,' on his 'Science of Deduction' website, "There's actually still tiny traces of it left _inside_ the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet."

"That's why they had to go," Sherlock grinned.

"So, how do we let the bomber know?" John shook his head.

"Get his attention, stop the clock," Sherlock smirked.

"The killer kept the shoes all these years," Leena began, "Remember, meticulous, to a T, plans things out ridiculously long…"

"Yes…" John nodded slowly.

"And he used the pink phone _the bomber_ sent, which means…"

John's eyes widened, "He's our bomber!"

The pink phone rang and Sherlock scooped it up, answering.

"Well done, you," the woman cried, "Come and get me."

He frowned, "Where are you?" he asked the woman, "Tell us where you are."

~8~

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade reported as Sherlock, Leena, and John stood before him in his office, "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park, and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you. Check the read out from this pager," he placed the device on his desk, John taking it to look.

"If she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock read.

"Or, if you hadn't solved the case," Leena nudged him.

"Oh, elegant…"

"Elegant?" John scoffed.

"What was the point?" Lestrade frowned, "Why would anyone do this?"

Leena sighed sadly, "I've seen people do insane things for a lot of reasons. Revenge, mercy, love, hate, power…even just plain fun."

"Oh," Sherlock started grinning, "I can't be the _only_ person in the world that gets bored."

The pink phone pinged, a new message. He held it up, playing the message, four pips.

"Four pips," John frowned.

"Looks like you passed the first test," Leena remarked.

"So it would seem," Sherlock nodded, before opening the next picture message, "Here's the second. It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" he showed them a picture of a car left on the side of the road.

"I'll see if it's been reported," Lestrade stood, just as Donovan entered.

"Freak, it's for you," she held up a cordless phone for the department.

"Call him that _one_ more time Sally," Leena grumbled.

Sherlock just picked it up, taking Leena's hand to pull her out of the office with him, holding the phone up between them so she could listen in, "Hello."

"It's ok that you've gone to the police," a man spoke, his voice shaking, another hostage.

"Who is this?" Sherlock asked, glancing at John who had noticed them and got up, "Is this you again?"

"But don't rely on them. Clever you. Guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me. So I stopped him laughing."

"Child," Leena mouthed as John walked up behind them.

Sherlock nodded, "You've stolen another voice, I presume."

"This is about you and me," the man replied.

"Who are you?" he frowned, listening to the noise in the background, Leena pulling out her phone to run a search, "What's that noise?"

"It's the sounds of life. Sherlock. But don't worry, I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours…this time you have eight."

And with that, the call cut out.

"So, somewhere in central London then," Leena remarked, looking at her phone, "Probably only a block or two from Ben..."

"How…" John shook his head.

She rolled her eyes and held up her phone with the traffic reports, "I could hear Ben in the background, ringing, just as a bus drove past. I check the routes, there are only a few busses driving past it now, so that hostage is somewhere in central London, within walking distance of Ben, on a bus route."

"Then..." Sherlock began before he looked at her, a frown on his face. 'Should we?'

She shook her head, 'We can't.'

'Why not? If we find him...'

She gave him a look of him being an idiot, 'It'll explode, obviously.'

He sighed, 'I suppose you're right.'

She smirked, 'Always am.'

"Right then," Sherlock nodded, "Solve the puzzle, don't find the bomb."

"Sorry," John shook his head, "What just happened?"

They'd just looked at each other and he could have _sworn_ they'd had a conversation.

"The only time he deduces or analyzes me," Leena remarked, "I read his expression, he analyzes mine, and we talk."

"Without saying anything?"

"People talk all the time with how they move, react, how they _don't_ talk," she shrugged, "It's what profiling is based on."

Before John could comment, Lestrade strode out of his office, "We've found it!"

~8~

"The car was hired yesterday morning," Lestrade explained as they walked to the black car, "By an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind. City boy, paid in cash. Told his wife he was going away on a business trip and he never arrived."

"You're still hanging round him?" Donovan asked John as Sherlock ducked down to look in the car.

"Yeah, well…" John shrugged, "Apparently Jackie's stuck around him about 20 years."

Donovan scoffed, her eyes narrowed at the girl, shaking her head, "Opposites attract. I suppose," she glanced at John. The girl, if she HAD known Sherlock 20 years, chances were she wouldn't leave him any time soon, but John…there was still time for him, "You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer."

"Before you ask," Lestrade cut in, seeing Sherlock open his mouth as they looked at the bloody mess in the car, "Yes, it's Monkford's blood. DNA checks out."

"No body though," Leena observed.

"Not yet," Donovan huffed under her breath, glaring at Sherlock…

And so Leena just turned and kicked her in the shin, "Say that again and I'll make the bruises on your knees seem like paper cuts."

Lestrade seemed cross between laughing and reprimanding, not sure whether to be glad that Donovan had been put in place a little, he'd actually had enough with her snide little comebacks about Sherlock, or resigned that he really _should_ reprimand Leena about treating the officers with respect.

"I'll only treat them with respect if they _earn_ it," Leena turned to him, speaking as though reading his mind, "She clearly has no respect for anyone. Not Anderson's wife. Certainly not Sherwood..."

"How did you…" now it was HIS turn to start asking that.

"Profiler," she pointed at herself, "Your micro-expressions gave you away..." he stared at her and she sighed, "Your expression said it all."

Sherlock smirked and nodded at the blood, "Get a sample sent to the lab," before nodding his head towards the crying woman speaking to some police, Mr. Monkford's wife. He turned and walked over to her with John and Leena, "Mrs. Monkford…" he greeted, actually sounding sympathetic.

"Yes, sorry," the woman sniffled, "But I've already spoken with two policemen…"

"We're not from the police," John told her, "We're…" he trailed off, not really sure what they were.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock held out a hand to the woman, "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um…we grew up together."

"I'm sorry," the woman frowned, "Who? I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"Oh, he must have done. This is horrible, I mean, I just can't believe it," he started sniffling, tears actually appearing in his eyes as he sounded like he was getting worked up, "I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world."

"Sorry, my husband has been depressed for _months_ ," the woman shook her head, "Who are you?"

"Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

She glared, "No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car. That's all."

"Ah, well. That was Ian. That was Ian all over."

"No, it wasn't!" the woman shouted, crossing her arms.

"Wasn't it?" Sherlock grinned, suddenly calm, "Interesting," and walking off.

"Who was I talking to?" Mrs. Monkford called to the police as Leena and John rushed after Sherlock.

"Why did you lie to her?" John frowned.

"Basic human response," Leena explained, "People naturally don't like telling you things. But they _love_ to contradict you."

"Past tense," Sherlock murmured, "Did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?" John shook his head.

"I referred to her husband in the past tense."

"And she joined in," Leena realized.

"Bit premature. They've only _just_ found his car."

"You think she murdered her husband?" John frowned.

"No," Leena shook her head.

"Definitely not," Sherlock agreed.

Leena glanced over to see John looking a bit lost and explained, "It doesn't fit the profile. That's not a mistake our murderer would make."

"I see," he began to nod before shaking his head, "No. I don't…" he sighed and rubbed his head, turning to Leena, "How are you able to keep up with him?"

"I've been around him more than _20 years_ John," she smiled, knowing it was off-putting for others to see them work in tandem, no one could ever guess at someone being close to up to par with Sherlock.

He sighed, "So what am I seeing?"

"Fishing," Donovan called as they passed, "Try fishing."

"Try monogamy!" Leena shot back, making Donovan huff and Sherlock smirk.

"Where now?" John asked.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock pulled a receipt out of his pocket, "Just found this in the glove compartment."

~8~

"Can't see how I can help you," Mr. Ewart, the owner of Janus Cars, remarked as he sat at his desk, the trio standing before him.

"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John explained.

"Yeah, lovely motor. Mazda RX8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself," he laughed.

"Is that one?" Sherlock pointed to a car.

"No, they're all Jags," the man turned in his chair to look, Sherlock peering at him closely as his back turned, "I can see you're not a car man. Eh?" he turned back.

"But surely _you_ can afford one, a Mazda, I mean."

"Yeah, that's a fair point," he nodded, "You know how it is…it's like working in a sweet shop. Once you start picking up the Liquorices," he itched his shoulder, "When does it all stop. Eh?"

"You didn't know Mr. Monkford?" Leena frowned as she eyed the man.

"No, he was just a client. He came in here and hired one of my cars. I've no idea what happened to him. Poor sod."

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewart?" Sherlock asked suddenly, "You've been away, haven't you?"

"Oh, the..." he gestured at his tan, "No, it's sunbeds. I'm afraid. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though, bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?"

"What?"

"I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change. I'm gasping."

Ewart eyed him a moment before pulling out his wallet to check, "No, sorry."

"Oh, well. Thank you very much for your time Mr. Ewart. You've been very helpful. Come on John, Leena," he called, heading out with them following.

"I've got change, if you still want to," John held out some change.

"He said that to get a look at Ewart's wallet," Leena remarked, John eyed her, "He promised to give up smoking," she shrugged, "He has yet to break a promise to me."

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock nodded, "Remember?" he turned to throw a small smile at Leena, "I'm doing well."

"I'm glad," she returned the smile, happy that he was making an effort, knowing how much it meant to her.

Her father had died from lung cancer, she had been adamant about not wanting him to go the same way.

'Where would I be without my Locksley?' she had asked him once, tears in her eyes that just made them bigger and brighter and sadder. It was a name she used when it was just them, an endearing name just for him, that only he knew about. Another affectionate form of his name, using the second half this time, also based in her favorite story, the hero, Robin of Locksley.

He hadn't been able to say no then either.

"So, why did you need to have a look at his wallet?" John asked, snapping them both from their thoughts.

"Because Ewart was lying," Leena remarked simply.

"What?"

~8~

Sherlock sat in St. Bart's, examining a sample of the blood Lestrade had given him, Leena running the computer program, John cross checking some notes, when the pink phone rang.

Sherlock answered, holding it up on speaker, "Hello."

"The clue's in the name Janus Cars," the man spoke, voice quivering.

"Why would you be giving me a clue?" he frowned as did Leena.

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other Sherlock. Me and you, not you and your little twat."

Sherlock glared at the slight against Leena, "Then talk to me in your own voice."

He also knew Leena would be able to tell more from the man's voice, picking up cues and clues from his intonation, his word selections, his speech pattern, than he would, her profiling involving that.

"Patience."

The call cut off.

And the computer beeped, the scan was finished. They looked at the results, then each other, grinning.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Answers. She calls him Sherwood/Locksley as Robin Hood is her favorite story, so we can just guess what Operation: Maid Marian was given how her visa was 'lost.' She's been in America, working with the BAU which means the crossover is...Criminal Minds! I know Brianna Brown was in an episode of Criminal Minds, as the 'call girl killer'...that will be referenced when we get to Irene :) In fact, we'll actually get at least one reference (maybe a tiny bit more) to each member of the BAU team (the core members) as the story and series goes on :)
> 
> And...here's a treat. Having written this OC as already having a history with Sherlock (much like the Professor in my DW story) and built up a relationship of sorts with him, and with Sherlock being unattached (unlike the Doctor in my Academic Series...Rose...) we'll get a little treat. I like to spend a while building up the OC/Main Character relationship so it's believable when it happens, but not here. Here, they've already built it up, they've been building it up for YEARS and we're just coming in right at the end, right when it happens. So, goodies for you, we get Sherlock/Leena almost right off the bat of her appearing :)


	6. The Great Game: The Criminal

"How much blood was on that seat," Sherlock asked as he, Leena, and John stood before Lestrade in Scotland Yard's parking garage, before the car Mr. Monkford had rented, "Would you say?"

"How much?" Lestrade frowned, "About a pint."

"Not about. _Exactly_ a pint. That was their _first_ mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been _frozen_."

"Frozen?"

"There are clear signs," Leena nodded, thinking on the tests they'd run.

"I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago," Sherlock remarked, "And _that's_ what they spread on the seat."

"Who did?" John looked up.

"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name is."

"The god with two faces," Leena nodded.

"Exactly. They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem, money troubles, bad marriage, whatever, Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble. Financial at a guess, he's a banker, couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

"So where is he?" John shook his head.

"Colombia."

"Colombia?" Lestrade frowned.

"Mr. Ewart of Janus Cars had a 20,000 Colombian peso note in his wallet," Sherlock explained as Leena pulled out her phone and began a search on her app, looking for the records of Mr. Ewart, "Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently. But when I asked him about the cars I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That plus his arm."

"His arm?"

"He kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him. And bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep B, probably, difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion, he'd just come back from setting Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia."

"Yep," Leena nodded, "I have bank transactions of currency exchange for Mr. Ewart, transportation of a plane ticket to Columbia, and health records for a shot against Hepatitis B. Not to mention a nice little deposit to his bank account in the amount of 1,000 pounds, must have been the contract fee. And his work records have him as out sick the last three days," she looked up to see the men looking at her.

"How did you get that information?" Lestrade eyed her.

She held up her phone, "I had a friend create an automatic hack system. I put in the place I need information from and on who and it'll hack into the system and download the information for me."

"You've a friend who's a hacker?"

"You might want to let Sherwood finish first," she remarked, nodding over at Sherlock, who seemed a little irritated that Lestrade found that more interesting.

"Right, yes, sorry."

Sherlock nodded, "Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"Mrs. Monkford?" John frowned.

"Oh, yes. She's in on it too. Now, go and arrest them Inspector, that's what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved," he turned to Leena, grinning, as they walked away, "I am on fire!"

~8~

Sherlock sat in 221B Baker Street, John and Leena behind him on either side of him, as he posted a new message on his website

'Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.'

A moment later the pink phone rang.

"He says you can come and fetch me," the man breathed, before starting to cry, "Help, help me, please!"

~8~

Sherlock was sitting in a chair across from John, with Leena beside him, that morning, John digging into the diner food as soon as it was laid before him, "Feeling better John?" Leena asked, smiling up at him.

John just glanced at her a moment, eyeing the pair, they were sitting close, far closer than he'd ever seen anyone sit with Sherlock, closer than he'd ever seen Sherlock _let_ them sit. Sherlock had his gaze on Leena, his entire concentration and focus on her, despite the fact she was talking to someone else at the moment. John shook his head to himself, he knew what was coming, but he couldn't understand how it would happen.

Sherlock was in love.

He _had_ to be.

The girl that he didn't insult, that he seemed to value the opinion of, that he texted and talked to at all hours and about everything…the girl he focused on yet didn't analyze or deduce…he'd seen the man's reaction to the bomber calling Leena a twat, how he hadn't corrected the man when Leena had been called his girlfriend. Somewhere, in the vast recesses of Sherlock's mind and heart, he had fallen in love with the girl some time ago. He was _sure_ of it…it was just…very unexpressed in normal human terms. And he truly felt for Leena, because he very much doubted it ever _would_ be expressed.

Sherlock Holmes was a self-proclaimed sociopath.

He didn't feel.

Or, at least, he liked to believe he didn't.

He could tell the girl cared for Sherlock deeply, the way she interacted with him, trusted him, praised him, their history…she was just like Molly, in love with the man, but Leena had known him long enough to not stutter around him, she had known him long enough for him to let her in. He could only hope for a miracle, that the two would one day get together. Because he rather liked Leena, she could be good for Sherlock.

"To be honest," he shook himself from his thoughts, "We've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started. Has it occurred to you…"

"Probably," Sherlock remarked, his eyes still on Leena as the pink phone sat before them.

John rolled his eyes, "No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes, it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know."

"It adds to the profile as well," Leena added, "He's got a fixation on Sherwood which means he's the personality type to be _able_ to focus on one thing for an extended period of time. He's obsessive, which compliments his cleverness, he won't just plan it out, he wants it to be _perfect_. We need to find him soon though," John gave her a look, "Because this level of obsession will only escalate. He'll go from wanting Sherlock's attention, to wanting him to suffer if something doesn't go his way. And once he escalates to that level, then we are in danger as well because he'll strike Sherwood in the place it hurts most, his heart, his friends," she looked over at him, holding Sherlock's gaze with her own.

"Is it him, then?" John asked after a moment, when neither turned away or said anything more, "Moriarty?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock sighed, finally turning his gaze from Leena when the pink phone pinged. He hit a button and three pips sounded, a picture of a plump blonde woman appearing in the message. He frowned, "That could be anybody."

"Well, it _could_ be, yeah. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How do you mean?" Sherlock frowned.

"Lucky for you Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly," he got up and walked to the counter of the diner, turning on the TV above it to a makeover show, the woman from the picture was the host.

"Thank you Tyra," she was saying, "Doesn't she look lovely. Everybody. Now? Anyway, speaking of silk purses…"

The pink phone rang and Sherlock picked it up, putting it low on speaker, "Hello?"

"This one is a bit defective," an old woman spoke slowly, "Sorry. She's blind. This is a funny one. I'll give you 12 hours."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, he had a bit of a soft spot for old women, Mrs. Hudson being a kindly one.

"I like to watch you dance."

Suddenly the channel cut in and a news bulletin was shown, "Continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her makeover programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Ham…"

~8~

"Connie Prince," Lestrade read a file as he walked them over to Connie's body in the morgue of St. Bart's, "54, one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?"

"No," Sherlock stated, staring at the body.

"Very popular, she was going places."

"Not anymore. So," he looked at the small group gathered around him, "Dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream. Good night Vienna."

"I s'pose," John shrugged.

"Something's wrong with this picture…"

John and Lestrade started to roll their eyes when Leena spoke, "I agree. It _can't_ be as simple as it seems," she glanced up at the men, "The bomber is too sophisticated for this. He wouldn't be directing us towards it for nothing."

"Something is _wrong_ ," Sherlock nodded, getting a closer look at a few scratch marks on her arm, some pricks in her forehead, "John."

"Hmm?" he looked over.

"Cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"

"Yeah."

Leena took the woman's hand and turned it, looking at the wound, "But the wound's clean. Very clean and very fresh," she leaned closer.

"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?" Sherlock asked.

"Eight, ten days," John guessed.

"This cut was inflicted post mortem," Leena noticed. John frowned and moved closer, seeing that the blood clotting was off, it HAD been done after the woman had died.

"After she was dead?" Lestrade frowned.

"Must have been," Sherlock nodded, "The only question is how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" he glanced at John, "You want to help, right?"

"Of course," John nodded.

"Connie Prince's background. Family history everything. Give me data."

"Here John," Leena tossed him her phone, "Use my cell."

"Right," he nodded, heading off to the side to get the records on Connie Prince.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of…" Lestrade began.

"Is there?" Sherlock glanced at him.

"Yes, why is he doing this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan."

"Who press gangs suicide bomber?"

"Bad Samaritan."

"I'm serious Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here, I'm trusting you. But out there, somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and he's just waiting for you to solve the puzzle, so just tell me what we dealing with?"

"Something new," Leena sighed.

This was a VERY sophisticated killer. She hadn't come up against many of them in the BAU. And this one trumped them all. The unsub reminded her very much of what a crime might be like if Sherlock had ever gone 'dark side' on her. But she knew this man was nothing compared to Sherlock. Because Sherlock, heaven forbid he ever did this, would make the murder unsolvable. He'd challenge himself to make one so well planned out that not even HE would be able to get anything off the victim or the crime scene.

~8~

"Connection, connection, connection," Sherlock mumbled as he paced in 221B Baker Street, staring at the collage of information they'd collected of Connie stuck up on the mirror, as Lestrade watched, John having gone to investigate Connie's brother, "There _must_ be a connection," he glanced at Leena, just thinking out loud but at her, "Carl Powers, killed 20 years ago, the bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him…"

Leena stepped back from a map she'd posted on the wall beside the mirror, areas marked in red, getting a geological profile going, "The bomber's iPhone was in the stationery from the Czech Republic. The first hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent."

"What's he doing?" Sherlock frowned, "Working his way round the world, showing off?"

Leena glanced down as the pink phone rang. She walked over and picked it up, setting it to speaker.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" the old woman asked, crying, "Joining the dots. Three hours. Boom. Boom."

~8~

"Great," Sherlock nodded as he spoke on his phone, "Thank you. Thanks again," before taking Leena's hand and pulling her to the back of the room.

"It's a real shame," Mrs. Hudson remarked as she stood beside Lestrade, staring at the information on the wall, "I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."

"Colors?" Lestrade frowned.

"You know, what goes best with what. I should never wear pastels apparently, drains me."

"Who's that?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock walked back, Leena looking up information on her phone.

"Home office."

"Home office?"

"Well, home secretary, actually, owes me a favor."

"She was a pretty girl," Mrs. Hudson nodded at the pictures of Connie, "But she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it? Did you ever see her show?"

"Not much for TV," Leena shrugged, she preferred her books.

"Not until now," Lestrade added.

Sherlock picked up his laptop, turning it on to the webcast of the show, Connie speaking with another man, "That's the brother," Mrs. Hudson told them, "No love lost there. If you can believe the papers."

"So I gather," Sherlock nodded.

Leena glanced up from her phone, "I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show," she showed him the message boards, "The fan site's indispensable for gossip."

He nodded, when his mobile rang and he answered, on speaker, "John."

"Hi," he said quickly, "Look get over here quickly, I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. Have you got a pen?"

"We'll remember," Leena assured him.

~8~

"That'll be him," Raoul, the houseboy, led Sherlock and Leena into Mr. Prince's home, Sherlock with a camera around his neck, Leena with a black box of makeup, playing cameraman and stylist.

"What?" Mr. Prince looked up, seeing to other people enter, John getting up to greet them.

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock walked over and shook his hand, "Very good to meet you."

"We're so sorry to hear about your sister…" Leena began, setting her box down and moving to shake his hand as well.

"Yes, very kind," the man shook Sherlock's hand and then Leena's.

Sherlock moved over to John, pretending to set up his camera, while Leena combed Mr. Prince's hair, readying him for the photo, "You were right," John said quietly, pretending to speak to Sherlock about the photo, "The bacteria got into her another way."

"Oh, yes?" Sherlock looked over.

"Right, are we all set?" Mr. Prince moved to stand by the fireplace as Sherlock got into his face, snapping pictures, "Not too close, I'm raw from crying."

"Oh," Leena looked down at the cat that had scampered into the room, "Who is this?"

"Sekhmet."

She glanced up, "Named after the Egyptian goddess I take it?"

Mr. Prince nodded.

"How nice," Sherlock remarked dryly, "Was she Connie's?"

"Yes," Mr. Prince smiled, "A little present from yours truly."

"Sherlock…" John gestured over to the man, "I'd like you to…"

"Oh yes, sorry," Sherlock held up the flash and took pictures of Mr. Prince with the cat.

"Bloody hell," Mr. Prince glared, "What are you playing at? You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy you two. What's going on?"

"Actually, I think we've got what we came for," John turned to him, "Excuse me…"

"What?"

"Sherlock, Jackie," John turned to him, keeping his cover as the journalist to the camera man and stylist, "We've got deadlines."

"But you've not taken anything!"

The group just ignored him, hurrying out of the room and the house.

John laughed, smiling, "Yes. Oh, yes!"

"You think it was the cat," Sherlock commented as they walked down the path from the house, "It wasn't the cat."

"What?" John frowned, "Yes, yeah it is. It _must_ be. It's how he got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

"Lovely idea."

"No. He coated it onto the claws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable, she wouldn't…"

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm. But it's too random and too clever for the brother."

"He murdered his sister for her money!"

"Did he?" Sherlock glanced back.

John frowned, "Didn't he?"

"Not even a little," Sherlock smirked.

"It was revenge, John," Leena explained, knowing how much Sherlock loved to prove his intelligence by making others work to reach the same conclusion he'd made.

"Rev…who wanted revenge?" John shook his head.

"Raoul, the houseboy."

Sherlock nodded, "Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes week in, week out. Virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough, fell out with her badly. It's all on the website," he nodded at Leena's phone where she'd showed him the comments on the show in the cab over, "She threatened to disinherit Kenny, Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle."

"Wait, wait, wait a second. What about the disinfectant then, on the cat's claws?"

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant. I know the cat doesn't come into it…"

"But Raoul's internet records do," Leena looked at her phone, having searched Raoul in her program.

"I hope we can get a cab from here," Sherlock muttered, looking around.

~8~

"Raoul de Santos is your killer," Sherlock told Lestrade, walking into Scotland Yard with a packet of information, "Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it _wasn't_ tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince. It was botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl Powers. Tut-tut," he looked at Leena, "Our bomber's repeated himself."

" _Naughty_ him," she laughed, playing on the child-like joke.

"So how'd he do it?" John shook his head.

"Botox injection."

"Botox?" Lestrade stared at him.

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum," Leena explained, showing the man the information she'd gathered of Raoul on her phone, "Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections."

"My contact at the home office gave us a list of Raoul's duties for Leena to cross reference with the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases," Sherlock added.

"You can see here," she pointed at her phone, scrolling down, "He's been bulk ordering Botox for _months_."

"Bided his time," Sherlock nodded, "Then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

"Are you _sure_ about this?" Lestrade had to ask.

Sherlock grinned, "I'm sure."

He sighed, "Alright, my office," he led the way.

"Hey, Sherlock, how long?" John asked as they followed the man.

"What?" Sherlock glanced at him.

"How long have you known?"

"Well, this one was quite simple. And, like I said, the bomber repeated himself."

"Which is _always_ a mistake," Leena added, "Makes it easier to catch them once they form a pattern."

"No, but Sherlock, the hostage," John reminded them, "The old woman, she's been there all this time."

"I knew I could save her," Sherlock waved him off, "I also knew that the bomber had given us 12 hours. I solved the case quickly that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him…"

John sighed and followed the two after Lestrade. Sherlock moved to the man's desk, sitting down and getting onto his website, leaving the newest message.

'Raoul de Santos, the houseboy, Botox.'

A moment later the pink phone rang and he answered it, "Hello."

"Help me!" the old woman cried.

"Tell us the where you are. The address?"

"He was so…" the woman trailed, in shock, "His voice…"

Leena's eyes widened, "No, no, no. No. _Don't_ say anything!"

"He sounded so…soft…" the woman breathed…before the line cut off.

"Hello?" Sherlock frowned.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade looked over, concerned.

"What's happened?" John frowned as Sherlock and Leena exchanged a knowing glance.

~8~

Leena hurried after Sherlock as he stormed into 221B Baker Street, throwing off his coat and striding to his bookshelf. He pulled out a book about Robin Hood and opened it, quickly pulling the syringe filled with morphine that was cut into the pages out, when a hand grabbed his wrist.

"No," Leena said, firm, holding his wrist, "Sherlock, no. You _don't_ need it."

He struggled to pull his hand free, feeling like a pressure was building in his chest. It was…sorrow…he knew it. He _hated_ feeling it. He hated _feeling_. He needed the morphine, dull his senses, make him focus, "Yes I do!" he yanked his hand away, moving to roll up his sleeve…

When Leena took a different approach, simply resting her hand on his, stilling him, "No," she whispered, looking at him, making him look into her eyes as she reached up to gently touch his cheek, "You don't Sherlock," she said softly, knowing she had to act quickly, she had to do _something_ to stop him, "Feeling isn't a _bad_ thing," she told him, before leaning in and gently pressing her lips to his.

His eyes remained open for a moment, before blinking, his breath catching as she kissed him slowly, his eyes drifting closed as his body took over his mind and he began to return the kiss. Before he knew it, his mind had completely shut off, all thoughts of the old woman of the way and reason she had died, leaving him the more lost he became in Leena's closeness, her warmth, her kiss…

His grip on the syringe loosened, dropping it in order to put his arms around her, moving her closer, _needing_ to be closer, to feel something other than the sorrow, to feel what she had always made him feel...comfort.

Leena started to smile into the kiss as she stepped closer, stepping right on the syringe, breaking it. She pulled back slowly, blinking as she looked up at him, "You _don't_ need it," she repeated.

He stared at her a long moment, lifting a hand to gently run his knuckles along her cheek, "No," he agreed, "I don't," he leaned in, this time being the one to initiate the next kiss, one that lasted so much longer than the last, felt so much more powerful. He felt breathless as he pulled away, resting his forehead to hers, his body was on pins and needles, his heart racing, his mind delightfully blank for one brief moment in his life, "Much better than any morphine."

She smiled and gave a little laugh, giving him one more peck, "Love is the best drug in the world Sherlock," she whispered against his lips, "I've been using for years," she admitted, giving him a meaningful look.

He blinked, realizing what she was saying, as a thrill ran up him. He'd always been a selfish and possessive boy, always irritated when others touched his things, he was the same even now with his experiments. But...Leena...she was the one thing he _hated_ when others touched or spoke to. In his mind, she was _his_ , from the moment she'd insisted on them being friends and refused to leave his side. At first he'd been irritated with the girl always following him but...she'd worn him down in a startlingly short time. She'd become a part of his life, never being far from him in the last fifteen years or so...until she'd gone to America. It had been...hard. Harder than he would ever admit out loud, to wake up and go through his day not even being able to _see_ her. He texted her constantly, called her, emailed her, anything he could do to keep contact. He let her into his cases, told her about his puzzles, asked for her opinion if just to keep her involved in his life. He went to more effort trying to keep her in his life than he had with his own family.

Because she was Leena.

He'd been terrified when she'd told him she was going to America. Not just because of where she'd be working, what she'd be doing, hunting down serial killers and other criminals, no, she did that with him as it was. But to know he wouldn't be there to watch her back, to help her solve the cases, to...keep the other men away. He admitted to himself now, though he used his best efforts to push all those thoughts to the back of his Mind Palace, to delete them before, he was afraid she'd meet a boy in America and decide to stay there. She was the one constant in his life, the one person who had been with him through everything, who knew him so completely he didn't even have to speak for her to understand him. It was the same for her as well he knew. He'd never given much thought to what it all could mean, all the...feelings...that stirred when Leena was around or when he thought about her. But now, hearing her words, now he _knew_.

A soft smile made its way onto his face, "I'll have to experiment with this one then."

She stared up at him a moment, her heart racing even faster. He hadn't said it, but he'd implied it. He was not going to touch drugs again, ever, he'd _promised_ her, but _this_ drug…this was one he'd gladly use.

She pulled him into one more kiss, realizing he'd just, in his own way, admitted he felt the same.

~8~

John sighed, standing in 221B Baker Street, watching the telly, a news report about an explosion that had originated in the flat of a little old blind woman, "The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing 12 people, was caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utility company…"

"Whole block of flats…" he shook his head, "He certainly gets about."

"Well, obviously I lost that round," Sherlock remarked from where he was sitting beside Leena on the sofa, his arm absently around her shoulders, "Although, technically, I _did_ solve the case," he turned to another channel.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him," Leena frowned, "Just once, he put himself in the firing line..."

"What'd you mean?" John looked over at them.

"Well, the profile would say that he stays above it all. He _organizes_ these things, he is _never_ the one to physically _do_ anything, doesn't want to get his hands dirty. But that goes even more detailed into the fact that no one ever has _direct contact_ with him. They can't say who he is, what he looks like, sounds like…"

"What like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that? So...people come to him, wanting their crimes fixed up...like booking a holiday?"

"Novel," Sherlock nodded, they watched as Raoul was taken in by the police, before he glanced at the pink phone, "Taking his time this time."

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

"Nothing."

"All the living classmates check out spotless," Leena added, holding up her phone, "No connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John suggested.

"The thought _had_ occurred," Sherlock mumbled.

Leena shook her head, "We've already decided that the bomber and Carl's killer are one in the same. The bomber is a young man. I'd say about our ages, give or take a couple years."

"So why is he doing this then?" John frowned, "Playing this game with you. Do you think he _wants_ to be caught?"

"I think he wants to be _distracte_ d," Sherlock remarked, almost sounding empathetic.

Leena just leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. She'd offered to make him a riddle to bide his time, but he wanted to be focused and undistracted when the next round began. They both knew the little old lady hadn't been the last test.

"I hope you'll be very happy together," John rolled his eyes.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock stiffened, pulling his arm away from Leena, as though just realizing he'd had it around her.

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual _human_ lives. Just so I know, do you _care_ about that at all?"

Sherlock was unimpressed, "Will caring about them help save them?"

"Not even a…"

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake," Sherlock glared at him.

"And find that easy do you?"

"Yes, very," he narrowed his eyes more, Leena remaining quiet, "Is that news to you?"

"No. No."

Sherlock eyed John a moment, "I've disappointed you."

"That's good, that's a good for deductible, yeah."

"Don't make people into heroes, John," Sherlock told him, "Heroes don't exist, and if they did, it would be Leena, not me," he said, startling Leena, "I certainly wouldn't be one of them."

"It's not just Sherwood, John," Leena called as John headed for the door to his room, "In the BAU we're taught to keep a distance, to not get attached or emotionally involved. You have to look at things logically, objectively. Emotions cloud your judgment and _that's_ when you make mistakes."

John looked at her a long while before turning to head out, knowing she was right, knowing that was probably why Sherlock was so good at what he did. He didn't get attached to anything.

"You were surprised," Sherlock turned to Leena after John shut the door, "When I called you a hero."

She shrugged, "I was more surprised you didn't call yourself one."

"Because I'm not."

"You are to _me_ ," she smiled softly, "My hero. My Locksley."

He just smiled softly and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on hers. She was his Marian.

Just then the pink phone pinged, playing two pips as a new picture popped up, "A view of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo," he looked at her, "You check the papers, I'll look online."

She nodded, getting up, before glancing at the door to John's room, "Should I get him?"

"He's angry with me," Sherlock shrugged, "So he won't help. Not much cop this caring lark."

"Locksley," she gave him a look.

He sighed and got up himself, going to get John, holding up the pink phone and nodding. John sighed and stepped into the room, moving to sit on the armchair, waiting.

Leena flipped through the papers, "Archway suicide," she called.

"Ten a penny," Sherlock remarked, looking up information on Leena's phone.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington. Man found on the train line, Andrew West…"

"Nothing," Sherlock snapped frustrated.

Leena rolled her eyes and got up, "If my app hasn't picked it up," she remarked, taking her phone back, "Then it's not been discovered yet."

He nodded, that was logical, she always had a way of doing that, making his irritations into logical reasoning against his irritation. He picked up his own phone and called Lestrade, "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

~8~

The next morning the trio was walking along the bank of the Thames, over to Lestrade and a few other officers who had gathered around a body of a man in a white shirt, black trousers, and black tie, lying face down.

"Do you reckon this is connected to the bomber?" Lestrade called over as they approached.

"Must be," Sherlock pulled on some gloves.

"It's odd, though, that he hasn't been in touch," Leena frowned. Whenever a profile skewed, it typically meant escalation on the horizon, _never_ a good sign.

"Then we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade sighed.

"Yes," Sherlock stepped around the body, moving a few feet away to look at it.

"Any ideas?"

"Seven so far."

"Seven?" Lestrade's eyes widened.

"Drat," Leena frowned from where she was crouched by the body, "I've only six," she remarked, standing, having tried to come up with as many _plausible_ explanations as she could.

Sherlock smirked, "You've gotten rusty. Spent far too long in America."

She just shook her head at him with a small smile. Knowing that was his way of saying she'd been away too long a period. That he'd missed her. Ah the joys of being fluent in Sherlockish. It was actually _hard_ to get offended when your brain was hardwired to understood what he was _really_ trying to say.

He stepped closer to the body, examining it with his magnifying glass, glancing at the man's veiny leg, before stepping back, gesturing to John to take a look. Lestrade waved him on and John moved over to the body.

"He's dead about 24 hours," John mumbled, "Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"

Sherlock moved over to Leena's side, quietly going over what he'd learned as she searched through her phone for the information he was looking for.

"Apparently not," Lestrade remarked, neither of them noticing the quiet conversation going on a few feet away, "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs, asphyxiated."

"Yes, I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth," John frowned, looking at small oval shaped bruises, "More bruises, here and there."

"Fingertips," Sherlock remarked.

"He's late 30s I'd say, not in the best condition."

"He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"What?" Lestrade shook his head.

Leena smirked, she loved the reactions of others when Sherlock threw them for a loop.

"We need to identify the corpse find out about his friends and…"

"Wait, wait, wait," Lestrade held up a hand, "What painting? What are you on about?"

"It's all over the place, haven't you seen the posters? Dutch old master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up, worth 30 million."

"Ok," Lestrade frowned, recalling seeing flyers for some art gallery presenting a lost treasure, some sort of painting, "So what has that got to do with the stiff?"

"Everything," Leena said, surprising the men, who seemed to not be following, "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" Lestrade shook his head, even more confused.

"It's a horror story, isn't it?" John frowned, "What are you saying?"

"Jewish folk story actually," Leena started to smile, she loved talking about stories and books and tales of old, "A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin whose real name is Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That," she nodded at the body, "Is his trademark style."

"So this is a hit?" Lestrade looked at her.

She nodded, "The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"Do I want to know why you know that?" John eyed her, now able to see a little Sherlock in her.

She rolled her eyes, "He was the basis for my dissertation to earn my Doctorate in Criminology and Criminal Justice."

Lestrade frowned, "But what has this got to do with that painting? I don't see…"

"You _do_ see," Sherlock remarked, "You just don't _observe_."

"Yes, alright, alright, girls," John cut in, "Calm down."

Leena smiled, "Sherlock, take them through it."

He grinned, "What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt."

"Cheap," Leena nodded.

"They're both too big for him."

"So some kind of standard-issue uniform."

"Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade suggested.

"Security guard?" John guessed.

"I'd wager that one," Leena nodded at John.

"That'll be borne out by his backside," Sherlock continued.

"Backside?" Lestrade frowned.

"Flabby, you'd think he led a sedentary life. Yet, the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So…" he pointed at Leena.

"A lot of walking _and_ a lot of sitting around," Leena agreed.

"Security guard's looking good. The watch helps too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular?" Lestrade countered, "Maybe he set his alarm like that the night before he died?"

"No, no, no. The buttons are stiff, hardly touched."

"He set his alarm like that a long time ago," Leena nodded, "His routine never varied."

"But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off…" he pointed at Leena.

"He works somewhere recognizable, in some kind of institution."

Sherlock grinned, "Excellent. And I found this," he held up a few bits of white paper, "Inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river, but still recognizable."

"Tickets?" John squinted at the papers as they walked over to Sherlock.

"Ticket _stubs_. He worked in a museum or gallery. Had Leena do a quick check."

She held up her phone, "The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing. Alex Woodbridge."

"Tonight, they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it. Something that would stop the owner getting paid 30 million. The picture is a fake."

"Fantastic," John stared at Sherlock stunned.

"Meretricious."

"And a Happy New Year," Lestrade grumbled.

John looked down at the body, "Poor sod."

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade began to head off.

"Pointless," Sherlock called, "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

"Me," he grinned.

~8~

As Sherlock, Leena, and John sat in a cab, Leena frowned, eyeing the pink phone in her hand, "Why hasn't he phoned?" she sighed, "He's broken his pattern…"

John frowned, "And that's bad?"

She glanced over at him, " _Very_ bad. It means he's escalating. He's gotten bored with leaving clues, he wants us to _really_ struggle…he wants us to be left in the dark. That's _never_ a good sign."

"Waterloo Bridge," Sherlock leaned forward to tell the driver.

"Where now, the gallery?" John looked over.

"In a bit," Sherlock shrugged, pulling out a small booklet from his pocket.

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got hold of an old master?"

"Don't know," Sherlock mumbled, jotting a note in his notepad.

"And, with this unsub, it's dangerous to jump to conclusions," Leena added.

"We need data," Sherlock decided, tearing out the paper and folding it. He glanced out the window and called to the driver, "Stop. Can you wait here? I won't be a moment," he added, getting out with the others, hopping over the railing of the bridge, John and Leena following.

"Sherlock?" John called as the man jogged off and up a few stairs to a homeless blonde woman.

"Change?" the woman looked up, "Any change?"

"What for?" Sherlock asked.

"Cup of tea, of course."

"Here you go," he handed her the folded paper and a note, "50."

"Thanks."

"What are you doing?" John asked as Sherlock took Leena's hand and pulled her back down the stairs to the cab.

"Investing," he called, opening the door for Leena to get in, " _Now_ we go to the gallery," he glanced at John, "Have you got any cash?"

John rolled his eyes as he got in after Sherlock, Leena just pulled out a few notes from her pocket, not about to let Sherlock mooch off of John, she handed it to him when the cab pulled up before the museum, Sherlock getting out.

"No," he called, motioning for John to stay, "We need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address."

"Ok," John nodded, moving to take the backseat, pocketing Leena's money as the duo walked off.

"You run a search," Sherlock muttered as they neared the back entrance, handing her his scarf and coat to hold onto, "I'll see what I can deduce about the painting."

She nodded and he moved to head in, only to be pulled back. He turned, confused, when she just smiled and gave him a quick kiss, "Be careful," she whispered, giving him another kiss, "Be smart."

He smiled, taking the initiative to give her a kiss as well. He knew she must have been waiting to do that for ages, Leena wore her heart on her sleeve, but she knew that, with his sociopathic tendencies, expressing emotion, mostly around others, was something he was uncomfortable with, so she'd waited till they were alone to do it.

It was funny, he thought, as he made his way into the building, he'd never had trouble expressing himself around her.

~8~

Sherlock, now dressed as a security guard, stood before the 'lost painting' in the gallery, just staring at it, when a well dressed woman stepped up behind him, "Don't you have something to do?"

"Just admiring the view," he remarked.

"Yes. Lovely, now get back to work, we open tonight."

"Doesn't it bother you?" he turned to her, walking towards her.

"What?"

"That the painting's a fake."

"What?" she laughed.

"It's a fake, it has to be. It's the only possible explanation. You're in charge, aren't you, Miss Wenceslas?" he eyed her, recognizing her from the news.

"Who are you?" she frowned.

"Alex Woodbridge knew that the painting was a fake. So, somebody sent the Golem to take care of him. Was it you?"

She shook her head, confused, "Golem? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Are you working for someone else? Did you fake it for them?"

"It's not a fake," she insisted.

"It _is_ a fake. I don't know why. But there's something _wrong_ with it. There _has_ to be."

"What the hell are you on about? You know I could have you sacked on the spot."

"Not a problem."

"No?"

"No," he smirked, "I don't work here. You see, just popped in to give you a bit of friendly advice."

"How did you get in?"

"Please."

"I want to know."

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," he turned and headed back towards a side door, taking off his hat in the process.

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"You should be," he pulled off his jacket and dropped onto the floor, "Have a nice day!" he pushed his way through a side exit that led to the street, grinning as he saw Leena standing there, leaning against a black cab, waiting for him, as he pulled at the tie around his neck, taking it off. He hated ties.

"Have fun?" she asked, looping his scarf over his neck and holding out his coat for him.

"I'd have had more if I knew why the painting's a fake," he muttered, putting his coat on.

"I ran a search on the painting," she commented, handing him her phone as they got in the cab, "It's a representation of something called the Van Buren Supernova."

He nodded, looking at the search, the information on the supernova, the painting, glimpsing the other data on the side, the dates of it and other astrological events.

"There's something here," he frowned, eyeing the information, "It's just not connecting."

"You'll get it eventually," she reached out to take her phone back, replacing it with her hand, "You always do Locksley."

He smiled at her faith in him.

~8~

Sherlock and Leena were standing outside 221 Baker Street, waiting for John to arrive, they'd gone back to the flat to see if any of the information might click with Sherlock if he saw it again given this new case, nothing.

"Spare change?" the young homeless woman from the bridge called from a few feet away to the passersbys, "Any spare change?"

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art," John called, stepping out of the cab that had just pulled up.

"And?" Sherlock glanced at him.

"And…"

"Is that it?" he scoffed, turning to head towards the woman as Leena went to hold the cab, "No habits, hobbies, personality?"

"Give us a chance, he was an amateur astronomer."

"Spare change, sir?" the woman asked as Sherlock stepped beside her.

"Don't mind if I do," he grinned as she handed him a scrap of paper with 'Vauxhall Arches' written on it. He nodded his thanks and went over to the cab, "Fortunately, I haven't been idle. Come on."

~8~

The trio was out of the cab in record time as soon as it pulled up to the Arches, walking in the dark to the tunnels.

Sherlock looked up, spotting the stars through the tops of two buildings, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

John glanced at him, "I thought you didn't care about…"

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," he remarked, his hand absently taking Leena's in the dark, he glanced at her, "You taught me that."

And indeed she had.

Since she had an eidetic memory, she didn't study as often as he'd had to when they'd gone to University together. He'd wanted to prove his intellect by graduating with top marks, which meant conforming to the thoughts and teachings of the professors. He'd been going through a phase. He'd nearly gone mad studying for exams till Leena pulled him away, locked his books in her room, and dragged him outside to a hill on the other side of the campus to just lie there and look at the stars. Ever since then, whenever something got to be too much or too frustrating, he'd take a walk about, look at the stars, and think of her.

"Listen," John cut in, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts, "Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat. A Professor Cairns..."

"This way," Sherlock called, heading further into the tunnels.

"Nice," John remarked, glancing around at the homeless men and women sleeping around the tunnels, "Nice part of town. Any time you want to explain?"

"It's his homeless network, John," Leena explained, shining her torch around.

"Really is indispensable," Sherlock muttered.

"Homeless network?" John frowned.

"It's his version of Mycroft's security cameras," Leena told him.

"My eyes and ears all over the city," Sherlock nodded.

"Ah, that's clever," John had to admit, "So you scratch their backs, and…"

"Yes, then disinfect myself."

John looked ahead, spotting a large shadow of a man standing up at the end of the tunnel, "Sherlock, come on," he pulled the two to the side, "What's he doing sleeping rough?"

Sherlock glanced around the corner to observe the shadow, "Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag much."

"Oh, shit," John breathed.

"What?" Leena asked.

"I wish I…"

"Don't mention it," Sherlock cut in, when the Golem suddenly made a run for it, "No, no, no, no, no!" they dashed around the corner, trying to go after him but he hopped in a waiting car which drove off, "It'll take us _weeks_ to find him again."

"Or not. I have an idea where he might be going."

"What?" Sherlock turned to him.

"I told you someone left Alex a message."

Leena smiled, "There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book," she reasoned, giving John a kiss on the cheek, "Brilliant John!"

John smiled, ignoring the narrowed gaze of Sherlock, "Come on," he led them off, back to their cab.

~8~

They ran into the planetarium of the museum where Professor Cairns worked after seeing the car the Golem had escaped in pulling away from the scene.

"Golem!" Sherlock shouted, making the large man look up from where he was attacking Cairns.

Unfortunately they were too late, he dropped the body of the woman to the floor, the main lights turning off, the projection lights flashing haphazardly, as the man ran off.

"I can't see him," Leena shouted.

"I'll go round," John called, dashing off to try and find a switch.

"Who are you working for Dzundza?" Sherlock called, looking around.

Leena was suddenly shoved to the floor as Golem appeared behind them, grabbing Sherlock and covering his mouth and nose with a large hand, trying to kill him.

"Golem!" John shouted, running onto the platform now that there was more light, a gun out and ready, "Let him go or I _will_ kill you."

Golem turned, kicking out, knocking the gun from John's hands as he threw Sherlock to the ground. He grabbed John, struggling with him, before shoving him away. Leena scrambled to the side, where John had been standing, as Sherlock got up and tried to fight Golem, only for the man to down him with a punch to the shoulder. He leaned over Sherlock, pressing his hand to the man's mouth and nose again…when John leapt onto his back.

"John!" Leena shouted, John's gun cocked in her hand, "Down!"

John let go, falling to the ground as Leena fired at the man, striking him in the shoulder. He gave an inhuman screech and turned, bolting out of the room as she fired once more, striking him in the leg…but still, he was too fast…

They'd lost him.

Sherlock slammed a fist against the floor before getting up. He looked at John, who pushed himself up, panting, and then to Leena, who had moved to sit against the control podium. She gave him a smile, trying to get up, but winced, her hand moving to her back.

Sherlock was at her side in an instant, tugging the edge of her shirt up gently to see a rather large, Golem-fist-sized, bruise forming on her back from where she'd been shoved. He simply let her shirt fall down again and put an arm around her, helping her walk out, John taking his gun back from her.

"Nice shot," John remarked.

She gave him a pained smile, "I was aiming for his knee the first time…"

He laughed.

~8~

The trio stood in the museum, Lestrade behind them, along with Ms. Wenceslaus.

"It's a fake," Sherlock remarked, looking through the information on Leena's phone, "It _has_ to be."

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," the woman rolled her eyes.

"It's a very good fake, then. You know about this, don't you?" he turned to her, "This is you, isn't it?"

The woman scoffed and turned to Lestrade, "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself," she glanced at Sherlock as the pink phone began to ring in Leena's hands, "And your friends, out?"

Leena clicked on the phone and held it out on speaker, Sherlock not even giving the bomber the chance to talk before speaking, "The painting is a fake. It's a fake, that's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed. Oh, come on. Proving it's just a detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake, that's the answer, that's why they were killed. Ok, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

Suddenly a child spoke, "10."

Sherlock turned to the painting instantly, looking at it closely, _needing_ to solve it. While he was very partial to old women…Leena…she was very partial to children. He would not let her feel what he'd felt upon the death of the old woman.

"It's a kid," Lestrade stiffened, "Oh, God, it's a kid."

"Sherwood…" Leena turned to him, afraid for the child. Two of her good friends in America had children.

"I know," he muttered, looking at the painting.

"What did he say?" John frowned.

"9," the boy continued.

"He's giving me time…" Sherlock muttered.

"Jesus," Lestrade breathed.

"It's a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?!"

"8."

He turned to Wenceslaus, "This kid will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me_!"

"7."

"No," Leena shook her head, tears in her eyes, "Don't say anything," she looked at Sherlock, "It only works if YOU figure it out."

He nodded, "It must be _possible_. It must be staring me in the face…" he turned back to the painting.

"6."

"How? Woodbridge knew, but how?"

"5."

"It's speeding up," Lestrade frowned.

"Sherlock!" John called.

"4."

"You can do it!" Leena encouraged.

He glanced back at her and then at her phone in his hand, "Oh!" his eyes widened, quickly scrolling to the search Leena had run of the painting, "Oh, that is _brilliant_. That is _gorgeous_."

"3."

"What's brilliant?" John called, "What is?"

"This is beautiful!"

"2."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade demanded.

He reached out and Leena tossed him the pink phone, "The Van Buren Supernova!" he shouted into it.

There was silence before…

"Please, is somebody there?" the boy called, "Somebody help me!"

Sherlock grinned and tossed the pink phone to Lestrade, "There you go, go and find out where he is and pick him up," he glanced back at the painting, "Van Buren Supernova, so called exploding star, only appeared in the sky in _1858_."

Leena smiled, remembering the search she'd run, how it had talked about the painting, but with astronomical events on the side, their dates there, "So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?"

"Exactly!" he beamed, handing her back her phone and taking her hand, pulling her off.

John paused, looking at the painting, when his phone pinged, a message from Mycroft.

_My patience is wearing thin._  
**MH**

~8~

Sherlock sat in Lestrade's office, his fingertips together, resting against his chin, Leena sat across from him, more like leaning on Lestrade's desk as the man sat across from Ms. Wenceslaus from the museum, John having gone to continue the investigation of Andrew West for Mycroft.

"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock commented, "Bohemian stationery, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads? What are we looking at, Inspector?"

"Well," Lestrade looked at his notes, "Criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact, at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flat…"

"I didn't know anything about that!" the woman cut in, "All those things, please believe me. I just wanted my share. The 30 million."

Lestrade looked at Leena, who had been eyeing the woman since they brought her in, profiling her. She gave a little nod, she was telling the truth.

"I found a little old man in Argentina," Wenceslaus continued, "A genius, I mean, really, brushwork immaculate. Could fool anyone. Well, _nearly_ anyone. But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea. A spark which he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock sat up as Leena frowned.

"I don't know," she shrugged before sighing, "It's true. It took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people, his people. Well, there was never any _real_ contact," both Sherlock and Leena stiffened, glancing at each other, THAT fit the profile of their bomber, "Just messages, whispers…"

"And did those whispers have a name?"

She nodded, hesitating before speaking, "Moriarty."

~8~

Sherlock and Leena quietly snuck up behind John as he crouched down by the tracks where Andrew West had died, looking at them, "Right…" he muttered to himself, "So Andrew West got on the train somewhere. Or did he? There was no ticket on the body. How did he end up here?"

"The points," Sherlock spoke, startling John.

"Yes," John looked over, standing.

"I knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock shrugged.

"West wasn't killed _here_ ," Leena explained, having seen it before, "That's why there was so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?"

"Since the start," she smiled, "Did you really think Sherwood would _ever_ give up a case like _this_ , _just_ to spite Mycroft? No, he'd want to _solve_ it to spite Mycroft on the fact that he didn't work it out himself."

"Come on," Sherlock called, nodding his head, before walking off, "We've got a bit of burglary to do."

~8~

John followed Sherlock and Leena down a street, "Missile defense plans haven't left the country otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service."

"Yeah, I know, I've met them," John sighed.

"Which means…" he pointed at Leena.

"Whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it."

He nodded, "My money's on the latter," he glanced up at a house, "We're here."

"Where?" John frowned as Sherlock and Leena just jogged up the steps beside it, "Sherlock what if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Leena remarked.

"Jesus," John sighed as Sherlock nearly kicked the door in, "Where are we?"

"Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe?" John frowned, following them in.

"Brother of West's fiancé."

"He stole the memory stick, killed his prospective brother-in-law," Sherlock added, kneeling down by a window overlooking the tracks to examine it with a magnifying glass, spotting traces of blood.

John and Leena stepped behind him, seeing the same.

"Then why did he do it?" John shook his head.

Sherlock glanced back, hearing the front door open, "Let's ask him."

John quietly snuck to the hall, peeking out to see Joe enter with his bike. He stepped out, Joe looking up for only a moment before lifting his bike up, about to throw it, when John pulled his gun, "Don't. _Don't_."

~8~

Joe sat on the sofa of his house, explaining everything that had happened, "He wasn't meant to. What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus."

"Why did you kill him?" John shook his head.

"It was an accident. I swear it was."

Leena sighed, eyeing the man with a frown, "But stealing the plans for the missile defense program _wasn't_ an accident, was it?"

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I don't know how it started. I just got out of my depth. I owned people _thousands_. Serious people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job. I mean, usually he's so careful. But, that night, after a few pints, he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans. Beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick. He waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost. Ending up on rubbish tips and what not. But there it was. And I thought…well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."

"What happened?" John crossed his arms.

He shook his head, he couldn't speak of it, "I was going to call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do. So I dragged him in there. I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock guessed. He glanced out the window at the train that had carried the body of Andrew West on top of it from where Joe had dragged it, "Carrying Andrew way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't hit a stretch of track with curves."

"And points," John realized.

"Exactly."

"Do you still have it then, the memory stick?" John looked at Joe who nodded.

"Fetch it for me," Sherlock demanded with a quiet power, "If you wouldn't mind," they watched as Joe got up dejectedly and headed out of the room. Sherlock moved over to John and Leena, "Distraction over, the game continues."

"Maybe that's over, too," John shrugged, "We've heard nothing from the bomber."

" _Five_ pips, remember, John," Leena shook her head, "It's a countdown, we've only had _four_ hostages."

~8~

Sherlock sat curled up on the armchair of 221B Baker Street, the pink phone on the armrest, fully dressed, in his coat, watching telly, as John sat behind him at a table, blogging, Leena standing by the bookshelf, looking at the books Sherlock had.

"No, no, no!" he shouted at the TV, earning a laugh from Leena, "Course he's not the boy's father. Look at the turn ups on his jeans."

"I knew it was dangerous," John remarked.

"Hmm?"

"Getting you into crap telly."

"Not a patch on Connie Prince."

"And there are worse things to get into," Leena added.

Sherlock glanced over at her to see her smiling at him, proud of him for overcoming that. He gave her a smile in return, he never would have if it hadn't been for her.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" John asked, pulling his gaze from Leena.

"Yep," he answered, "He was over the moon."

"Did he threaten you with a knighthood again?" Leena asked.

"Of course."

"You know, I'm still waiting," John added.

"Hmm?"

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"It didn't do you any good, did it?"

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective," he remarked, closing his laptop.

"True."

"I won't be in for tea," he told them, getting up, "I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge. Milk, we need milk…"

"I'll get some," Leena called, stepping over and getting her jacket, she needed something to do, she'd ready all the books on the shelve already.

"Really?" he looked at her, she nodded, smiling, "And some beans?"

"Not a problem," she laughed.

She'd been told by many people that she was too thin, that she should eat more, but those who _really_ knew her knew that she ate like a _pig_ nearly _all_ the time. She'd just…spending so much time with Sherlock, rushing about, solving mysteries, and then with the BAU, she got ample exercise, burned off a lot of it very fast. She had no problems getting food, knowing Sherlock barely ate during his cases, but that she and John would be starving.

"Thanks," John smiled, heading out.

She pulled on her coat and turned to Sherlock, "I'll only be a few minutes," she told him, it was rather late and the last of the shops would be closing soon, it being nearly midnight. She leaned over to kiss him quickly, stepping back but glancing over at him, "Be careful," she nodded to the laptop he had partially stashed next to him, "And be SMART."

He nodded, smirking, he should have expected she'd notice and know what he was planning.

She nodded as well and stepped out.

He pulled out the laptop and updated his site.

'FOUND: The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The pool. Midnight.'

He smirked, glancing at the clock, only half an hour to go.

~8~

Sherlock stepped into the pool at midnight, holding out the memory stick at the seemingly empty room, "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this…" he turned, hearing a side door open, only to see John step in, wearing heavy winter coat with a fur hood, not something Sherlock knew he owned.

"Evening," John said, "This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"

"John?" he frowned, "What the hell…"

"Bet you never saw this coming," he opened his jacket to reveal bombs attached to him, red lasers aimed at his chest from sniper rifles hidden on the floor above, "What would you like me to make him say next?"

Without missing a beat, Sherlock replied, "Gottle o'gear."

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock edged closer, looking around, "Gottle o'gear. Gottl…"

"Stop it."

"Nice touch this," John continued, "This pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him," John closed his eyes a moment, "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock called.

"I gave you my number," a quiet voice called from the side of the room, near the back doors, "I thought you might call," Sherlock looked over to see Jim, Molly's Jim, step out from behind a pillar, "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun, aiming it at Moriarty, "Both."

"Jim Moriarty," he introduced properly, "Hi," he began to mock, "'Jim? Jim from the hospital?'" he sighed and started to casually walk around the pool, hands in his pockets, "Oh, did I really make such a _fleeting_ impression? But then, I suppose that was rather the point. Don't be silly," he eyed the gun in Sherlock's hand as he lifted it, "Someone _else_ is holding the rifle," he walked to their side of the pool, stopping by the lockers, "I don't like getting my hands dirty," he smirked, "But I bet your little girlfriend told you that already, didn't she?" he frowned, "Where _is_ she? I'm sure she wouldn't want to miss this…" he smirked and turned, reaching to the side and pulling Leena out from between an opening in the lockers, her hands bound before her, her mouth gagged, more little red rifle lasers aimed at her, much like John. Sherlock stiffened, his eyes widening a fraction, but just enough for Moriarty to notice, "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a _teensy_ glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

"Dear Jim…" Sherlock began, his gaze on Leena, reading her expression. She wasn't afraid, if anything, she was _angry_ , angry at herself for getting caught or angry at Moriarty for catching her he didn't know, so he had to buy more time, "Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

Sherlock cocked the gun, "I did."

"You've come the closest," he agreed, "Now you're in my way."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed, glancing at Leena as she subtly nodded. It was as she'd said, he'd escalated to the point of not just wanting his attention, but wanting him dead.

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment," he shot back quickly.

"Yes, you did," Sherlock replied, equally as fast.

"Yeah, ok, I did," he shrugged, "But the flirting's over. Sherlock," he nudged Leena forward, making her walk with him closer to Sherlock, "Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play," he paused, "So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off," he eyed Sherlock a moment, before starting to walk again, "Although I have loved this, this little game of ours, playing 'Jim from IT,' playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died…"

"That's what people do!" he shouted, making Leena flinch at the suddenness, making Sherlock tense, realizing this was the child-like quality, the tantrum, as Leena had called it, the moment of unpredictability.

"I _will_ stop you," Sherlock threatened.

"No, you won't."

Sherlock glanced at John, "Are you alright?"

Moriarty stepped closer with Leena, "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

John just glanced at Sherlock and nodded he was fine.

Moriarty smirked, "See that, he's fine…" he glanced at Leena, "But your little girlfriend won't be," he suddenly shoved Leena to the side, headfirst into the wall of the lockers, knocking her out.

"Take it," Sherlock held out the memory stick, not wanting the man to attack her again.

"Oh, that?" Moriarty laughed, walking right up to Sherlock and taking the stick, "The missile plans," he kissed it, "Boring. I could have got them anywhere," and tossed it into the pool.

John, seeing his opening, dashed forward and grabbed the man around the throat from the back, "Sherlock, run!"

"Oh," Moriarty laughed more, "Good. _Very_ good."

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we _both_ go up."

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops. You've rather shown your hand there," he smirked, watching as a red laser appeared on Sherlock's forehead, "Dr. Watson…gotcha," John sighed and let go, stepping back. Sherlock gave him a look and John went to check on Leena, "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

Sherlock looked at John, who nodded, she was fine, just knocked out, so he returned his attention to Moriarty, "Oh, let me guess, I get killed?"

"Kill you?" he grimaced, "No, don't be obvious, I mean, I'm _going_ to kill you somewhere, some day. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something _special_. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock replied, serious.

Moriarty smirked, "But we both know that's not quite true," he glanced back at Leena, lying on the ground, with John beside her, before turning back to Sherlock, "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now?" he lifted the gun again, "Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he made a surprised expression, "'Cos, I'd _be_ surprised Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes," he turned and slowly made his way off.

"Catch you…later," Sherlock called, serious, stepping up to John.

"No, you won't!" Moriarty called playfully as a door opened and shut.

Sherlock waited a moment longer before rushing over to John, helping him take the bomb vest off, "Alright? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine, Sherlock," John panted as Sherlock tossed the vest away, "Oh, Christ. Are you ok?"

He simply moved to Leena's side, checking on her himself, "Me?" he asked, distracted, "Yeah, fine, I'm fine. Fine. That er…thing that you…that you did. That…um…you offered to do…that was…um…good…" he tried to express.

The only person he'd ever known who had been willing to die for him had been Leena.

He'd gotten her into quite a few pickles over the years, quite a few dangerous situations. One occasion, her very last before she'd gone to America, she'd nearly died…it had been a suicide escape, both of them running past men with guns. He'd noticed a small vent that she could have climbed through but she refused to leave him. She'd told him that she'd rather die _with_ him, on a case, than see him die. She'd made him promise, since she wouldn't be there to watch out for him, that he wouldn't die. That if he was going to go, they'd go together.

"I'm glad no one saw that," John breathed after a moment, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Hmm?" he looked up from dabbing a small cut on Leena's head.

"You, ripping my clothes off, in a darkness swimming pool. People might talk."

"They do little else."

They started to laugh, both moving to Leena, about to try and get her up, when John noticed the red lasers were back, "Oh…"

A side door opened and Moriarty popped back in, "Sorry, boys. I'm so _changeable_. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my _only_ weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just _can't_. I would _try_ to convince you. But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock looked at John, who nodded, and then at Leena's body, recalling her promise, and then to the gun in his hand, "Probably my answer has crossed yours," he called, turning as he stood, to aim his gun at Moriarty, before slowly lowering it to the bomb on the floor…

To be continued...in...Holmes Is Where the Heart Is!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my second shortest story so far, 'Revision: The Dream Lady' being the shortest with only four chapters. But I suppose Holmes Is Where the Heart Is (a play on Home is Where the Heart is) will be the same length too. I've got big plans for that story, especially for Leena and Sherlock, which we'll see next week ;)
> 
> I hope the Sherlock/Leena/morphine scene was ok. Sherlock is incredibly hard to write in a scene like that because I wanted to show that he was affected by the death of the old woman, and also...trying to have an overwhelming surge of emotion from a 'sociopath' is pretty hard. I feel like, at that point, he wouldn't outright say he loves Leena, but he would definitely realize he does, but...idk...it's a big old mess. I'm definitely going to try to keep Sherlock as believable as possible and if he gets a little too OOC, just let me know and I'll try to fix it :)
> 
> As for the next story, how will Leena deal with Irene? How will Sherlock deal with Irene now that he has Leena? I suppose we'll find out :)


End file.
